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SELECTIONS 



BRITISH POETS. 



By ELIZA WOODWORTH. 



iffy I totlbt giittstratium*. 



7 



&J. 



33" e ro ~ T) o r k : 

PUBLISHED BY CARLTON & PHILLIPS, 



200 MULBERRY-STREET, 
1 856. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, 
BY CARLTON & PHILLIPS, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern 

District of New- York. 



CONTENTS. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER x Page 9 

From " The Prologue to the Canterbury Tales " 10 

EDMUND SPENSER 17 

The Cave of Despair 18 

The Creation 23 

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE 24 

Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death 27 

Music 28 

A Father's Arlvice to his Son 28 

Voice of the Dying 29 

Outward Show 29 

Wealth the Armour of Sin 30 

Macheth's Mental Struggle 30 

Abuse of Authority 31 

Solitude Illustrated. 32 

A Good Conscience 32 

ROBERT HERRICK 33 

The Daffodils 33 

To Blossoms 34 

Time 35 

JOHN MILTON 36 

Hymn to the Nativity 39 

Speech of Belial Dissuading War 46 

Apostrophe to Light Illustrated. 48 

Imaginary Meeting of Satan, Sin, and Death 50 

SAMUEL BUTLER 54 

Sir Hudibras 54 



4 CONTENTS. 

/OHN DRYDEN Page 56 

Veni Creator 57 

Natural Religion 58 

Resignation Illustrated. 60 

MATTHEW PRIOR 61 

A Simile 62 

Charity 62 

ISAAC WATTS, D. D 65 

Free Philosophy 66 

Riches 67 

Hymn of Praise 69 

The Resurrection of Christ 70 

Reverence 70 

Adoration ■ 71 

THOMAS PARNELL 72 

A Night-piece on Death 73 

EDWARD YOUNG, D. D .' 76 

Procrastination 77 

Night and Time 78 

Conscience - 82 

Death 82 

From " The Consolation " 83 

The Judgment-Day 86 

The Existence of God 87 

ALEXANDER POPE 89 

Providence ~: 90 

The Universal Prayer 94 

. The Dying Christian to his Soul 96 

JAMES THOMSON 97 

A Man Perishing in the Snow 98 

The Afflicted '. 99 

A Winter's Storm Illustrated. 100 

From the " Castle of Indolence " 105 

THOMAS GRAY 106 

Elegy Written in a Country Church-yard Illustrated. 106 

WILLIAM COLLINS Ill 

The Passions Ill 

How Sleep the Brave ! 115 

MARK AKENSIDE 116 

From " The Pleasures of the Imagination " .' 117 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH 122 

The Village Pastor 123 

The Village Schoolmaster 124 



CONTEXTS. 5 

WILLIAM COWPER Page 126 

The Infidel and the Christian 128 

Movement and Action the Life of Nature 130 

The Winter Evening Illustrated. 131 

Great Suhjects 135 

The Rose 136 

Slavery 137 

Human Frailty ....._ 13S 

JAMES BEATTLE.LL. D 139 

The Hermit Illustrated. 140 

ROBERT BURNS 142 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 144 

Poverty 147 

Lines written in the Prospect of Death 149 

SAMUEL ROGERS 150 

From " The Pleasures of Memory " 150 

The With ..." 153 

JOANNA BALLLIE 154 

The Kitten 154 

Song 158 

WILLTAM WORDSWORTH v 160 

Ode — Intimations of Immortality 160 

A Simile 165 

Change 165 

London before Sunrise 167 

The Power of Sound at Night 168 

The Daffodils 169 

SIR WALTER SCOTT 170 

The Tomb of Michael Scott 170 

A Dirge 175 

Battle of Beal' an Duine 176 

JAMES MONTGOMERY 179 

The Grave 179 

Life 181 

Night 182 

From " The World before the Flood " 7 184 

Enoch's Account of the Death of Adam 185 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 188 

From " The Ancient Mariner " 189 

From "Christabel " 190 

Youth and Age 191 

Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni 193 

The Nightingale Illustrated. 195 



6 CONTENTS. 

ROBERT SOUTHEY Page 199 

The Holly-tree 199 

Moonlight Illustrated. 201 • 

THOMAS CAMPBELL 202 

The Last Man 203 

The Rainbow 206 

The Sceptic 208 

The Rose of the Wilderness Illustrated. 210 

The Exile of Erin 212 

THOMAS MOORE 214 

Those Evening Bells 214 

A Reflection at Sea 215 

Dirge of Hinda 215 

O Breathe not his Name ! 216 

Hidden Sorrow 217 

Little Things 217 

REGINALD HEBER, D. D 218 

Missionary Hymn 219 

Hymn 220 

The Judgment 221 

Life Fading .- 221 

Early Piety 222 

Death 223 

Affliction 224 

The Birth of Christ 225 

Passage of the Red Sea 225 

JOHN WILSON 228 

From " The City of the Plague " 228 

The Death of the Christian 230 

A Church-yard Scene Illustrated. 231 

The Ocean 233 

LORD BYRON • 234 

Apostrophe to the Ocean 237 

When Coldness Wraps this Suffering Clay 239 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 240 

Darkness .- 241 

Waterloo — the Ball and the Battle 243 

Byron's Farewell to his Wife 245 

Greece 247 

Thought 250 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 251 

Lines written in the Vale of Chamouni 253 

Lines written near Naples 255 

Dirge for the Year 256 



CONTENTS. 7 

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS Page 258 

The Agony in the Garden 259 

The Hour of Death 260 

The Homes of England 261 

The Pilgrim Fathers 263 

The Spells of Home 264 

The Vaudois Wife 266 

Hymn of the Vaudois 268 

A Dirge 270 

Things that Change 270 

A Father Beading the Bible 272 

The Better Land 273 

The Angels' Call 274 

The Rhine 275 

The Meeting of the Brothers 276 

JOHN KEATS 279 

To the Nightingale 279 

ROBERT POLLOK 282 

Perdition 284 

The Hypocrite 285 

Slander 286 

The False Priest 287 

The Critic 289 

Sorrow and Change 289 

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON 292 

To the Snow-Drop 293 

The Forgotten One 294 

Death 297 

The Offering 298 

The Struggles of Life 300 

MARY ANNE BROWNE 301 

The Forgotten One 301 

She was not made for Happiness 303 

CAROLINE SOUTHEY 305 

Autumn Flowers 306 

MARY HOWITT Illustkated. 308 

Winter 308 

The Grave 311 

D. M. MOIR 314 

Lines written at Midnight 314 

Weep not for Her 316 

ALFRED TEXXYSi >\ 318 

The Golden Year 318 

The Death of the Old Year .319 

Progress 321 



8 CONTENTS. 

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY Page 322 

The End 322 

Faith 322 

Temptation 323 

Life 324 

MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER 325 

The Words of Wisdom 325 

Of Anticipation 327 

To-day .-. 329 

Of To-morrow 332 

FRANCES BROWN 336 

Let us Return 336 

Streams 338 

The Voice of the Falling Leaves 340 

We are Growing Old 341 

MISS ELIZA COOK 343 

The Old Arm-chair 343 

Fire 344 

" Thy Will be Done !" : 345 

HON. MRS. NORTON 347 

Obscurity of Woman 348 

Sonnet 352 

Neutrality 353 

FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER 354 

The Old Home 354 

Past Hours 355 

Life 356 

ELIZABETH B. BROWNING 357 

Cowper's Grave 357 

The City 361 

The Wail of the Spirit of Earth 363 

Man 365 



SELECTIONS 

FEOM 

TIE BRITISH POETS. 



1328—1400. 

Geoffrey Chaucer, the earliest of the British poets, 
and "the father of English poetry," was, it is be- 
lieved, born in London. He received his education 
both at Cambridge and Oxford, and is supposed to 
have studied law. He married a sister of the wife 
of John of Gaunt, son of Edward IH. The poet 
appears to have imbibed, or at least defended, the 
sentiments of Wycliffe, and was, in consequence 
of becoming involved in the controversy and insur- 
rection at London, compelled to take refuge in Zea- 
land. He soon returned to his native country, but 
purchased his safety only by disclosures which 
roused against him the hatred of his former party- 
friends. During the later years of his life he lived 
in retirement at "Woodstock and Donnington Castle, 
and died while on a visit to London, in 1400. He 
filled many offices of public trust, and was a favourite 
at court. He also accompanied the forces of the 



10 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

king during their invasion of France, in 1359, and 
was often sent on foreign embassies. The principal 
works of Chancer are the "Canterbury Tales," 
"Troilus and Cresseide," " Chaucer's Dreme," "The 
Legende of Good Women," "The Flower and the 
Leaf," and "The Testament of Love," with a few 
translations from the French. 



FROM THE PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES. 

Befelle, that in that season on a day, 

In Southwark at the Tabard as I lay, 

Eeady to wenden on my pilgrimage 

To Canterbury, with devout courage, 

At night was come into that hostelrie 

Well nine and twenty in a companie 

Of sundry folk, by aventure yfalle 

In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all 

That toward Canterbury wolden ride. 

The chambers and the stables weren wide, 

And well we weren eased atte beste. 

And shortly, when the sun was gone to reste, 

So had I spoken with them every one, 

That I was of their fellowship anon, 

And made agreement early for to rise, 

To take our way there as I you advise, 

But natheless, while I have time and space 

Before I further in the tale do pace, 

It seemeth me accordant unto reason, 

To tell unto you all the condition 

Of each of them, so as it seemed me, 

And who they weren, and of what degree ; 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 11 

And eke in what array they all were in, 
And at a Knight then will I first begin. 

A Knight there was, and that a worthy man, 

That from the tune that he at first began 

To ridden out, he loved chivalrie, 

Truthe and honour, freedom and courtsie. 

Full worthy was he in his lordes warre, 

And thereto had he ridden, near and farre, 

As well in Christendom as in heathenness, 

And ever honoured for his worthiness. 

At Alisandr' he was when it was won, 

Full often time he had the field outdone 

Aboven all the nations warring in Prusse. 

In Lettone had he travelled, and in Eusse. 

***** 

With many a noble army had he been, 

Of mortal battles had he seen fifteen. 

***** 

And evermore he had a sovereign praise, 

And though that he was worthy he was wise, 

And of his port as meek as is a maid, 

He never yet no villainy had saide 

In all his life, unto no man or wight, 

He was a very perfect noble Knight. 

But for to tellen you of his array, 

His hose was good, but yet he was not gay. 

Of fustian he weared a gipon, 

All besmutted with his habergeon, 

For he was lately come from his voyage, 

And wenten for to do his pilgrimage. 

With him there was his son, a fresh young squire, 

A lover and a lusty bachelor, 

With locks curled as they were laid in press ; 

Of twenty years of age he was I guess. 



12 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Of his stature lie was of equal length, 

And wonderf'ly agile, and great of strength; 

And he had something seen of chivalrie, 

In Flanders, in Artois, and Picardie, 

And borne him well, as of so little space, 

In hope to standen in his ladie's grace. 

Embroidered was he, as it were a meade 

All full of fresh flowers, white and red, 

Singing he was, or fluting all the day, 

He was as fresh as is the month of May. 

Short was his gown, with sleeves full long and wide 

Well could he sit on horse, and fairly ride. 

He could songs make, and well endite, 

Juste, and eke dance and well pourtray and write. 

Courteous he was, lowly and serviceable, 

And carved for his father at the table. 



A yeoman had he, and servants no mo 
At that time, for him pleased to ride so ; 
And he was clad in coat and hood of green, 
A sheafe of peacock arrows bright and keen 
Under his belt he bare full thriftily ; 
Well could he dress his tackel yeomanly. 
His arrows drooped not with feathers low, 
And in his hand he bare a mighty bow. 
A round head had he with a brown visage ; 
Of wood-craft knew he well all the usage ; 
Upon his arm he bare a gay bracer, 
And by his side a sword and buckler, 
And on that other side a gay dagger, 
Harnessed well, and sharp as point of spear ; 
A cristofre on his breast of silver shene ; 
An horn he bare, the baudrick was of green. 
A forester was he soothly I guess. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 13 

There also was a nun, a prioress, 
That in her smilling was full simple and coy, 
Her greatest oath was but by Saint Eloy ; 
And she was cleped Madame Eglantine. 
Full well she sang the service divine, 
Entuned in her nose full sweetly ; 
And French she spake full faire and fetisly, 
After the school of Stratford atte Bow, 
For French of Paris was to her unknowe. 
At meat was she well ytaught withal] ; 
She let no morsall from her lippes fall, 
Nor wet her fingers in her sauce deep ; 
Well could she carry a morsel, and well keep 
That no drop ne fell upon her breast. 
In courtesie was set, full much, her lest. 



And certainly she was of great disport, 

And full pleasant, and amiable of part, 

And took much pains to counterfeit the air 

Of court, and hold a stately manner, 

And to be thoughten high of reverence. 

But for to speaken of her conscience, 

She was so charitable and so piteous, 

She would weep if that she saw a mouse 

Caught in a trap if it were dead or bled ; ■ 

Two small hounds had she that she fed 

"With roasted flesh, and milk, and wastel bread, 

But sore she wept if one of them were dead, 

Or if men smote it with a staff smarte : 

She was all conscience and tender heart. 

Full seemely her wimple pinched was ; 

Her nose was strait ; her eyes were grey as glass ; 

Her mouth full small, and thereto soft and red ; 

But certainly she had a fair forehead. 



14 SELECTIONS PROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

It was almost a span broad I trow, 

For certainly she was not undergrowe. 

Full handsome was her cloak, as I was 'ware, 

Of small coral about her arm she bare 

A pair of beads, gauded all with green, 

And thereon hung a broach of gold full shene, 

On which was first ywritten a crowned A, 

And after, Amor vincit omnia. 

Another nun also with her had she 

That was her chaplain, and of priestes three. 

A monk there was, full skilful in the chase, 

A bold rider, no better in that place, 

A manly man, to be an abbot able ; 

Full many a daintie horse had he in stable, 

And when he rode, men might his bridle hear 

Gingling in a whistling wind, as clear, 

And eke as loud, as doth the chapel bell. 



This jolly monk he let old things pace, 

And held after the new world the trace. 

He gave not for the test a pulled hen, 

That saith that hunters be not holy men ; 

And that a monk when he is reckless, 

Is like unto a fish that is waterless ; 

That is to say, a monk out of his cloister ; 

This ilke text held he not worth an oyster ; 

And I shall say his opinion was good. 

Why should he study, and make himself wood, 

Or upon a book in cloister alway pore, 

Or toil with his hands, and labour, 

As Austin bid ? How shall the world be served \ 

Let Austin have his toil to him reserved. 

Therefore he was a hard rider a right : 

Greyhounds he had as swift as fowl of flight ; 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 15 

Of pricking and of hunting for the hare 
Was all his lust, for no cost would he spare. 
I saw his sleeves all gauded at the hand 
With fur, and that the finest of the land. 
And for to fasten his hood under his chin, 
He had of gold a curiously- wrought pin : 
A love-knot in the greater end there was. 

His head was bald, and shone as any glass, 

And eke his face, as it had been anoint. 

He was a lord full fat and in good point, 

His eyes were deep, and rolling in his head, 

That steamed as a furnace of lead. 

His boots souple, his horse in great estate, 

Now certainly he was a fair prelate, 

He was not pale as a tormented ghost ; 

A fat swan loved he best of any roast; 

His palfrey was as brown as is a berry. 



A good man there was of religion, 

That was a poor parson of a town ; 

But rich he was in holy thought and work, 

He was also a learned man, a clerk, 

That Christ's Gospel truely woidd preach, 

His parishens devoutly would he teach. 

Benigne he was and wondrous diligent, 

And in adversity full patient : 

And such he was yproved often times ; 

Full loth were he to cm-sen for his tithes, 

But rather would he given out of doubt, 

TJnto his poor parishioners about, 

Of his offering, and eke of his substance ; 

He coidd in little thing have suffisance. 

Wide was his parish, and houses far asunder, 

But he nor felt nor thought of rain or thunder, 



16 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

In sickness and in mischief to visit 
The farthest in his parish, much and oft, 
Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff. 
This noble ensample to his sheep he gave, 
That first he wrought and afterward he taught, 
Out of the Gospel he the wordes caught, 
And this figure he added yet thereto, 
That if gold rust, what should iron do ? 
And if a priest be foul, on whom we trust, 
No wonder if a common man do rust ; 
Well ought a priest ensample for to give, 
By his cleanness, how his sheep should live. 
He set not his benefice to hire, 
Or left his sheep bewildred in the mire, 
And ran unto London, unto St. Paul's, 
To seeken him a chanterie for souls, 
Or with a brotherhood to be withhold : 
But dwelt at home, and kept well his fold, 
So that the wolf ne made it not miscarry. 
He was a shepherd and no mercenarie, 
And though he holy were, and virtuous, 
He was to sinful men not dispiteous, 
Nor of his speech dangerous nor high, 
But in his teaching discrete and benigne. 
To draw his folk to heaven, with faireness, 
By good ensample, was his business : 
But if were any person obstinate, 
Whether he were of high or low estate, 
Him would he reprove sharply for the nones, 
A better priest I trow that nowhere none is, 
He waited after neither pomp ne reverence, 
Nor maked him no spiced conscience, 
But Christ's lore and his apostles twelve 
He taught, but first he followed it himselve. 



EDMUND SPENSER. 17 



1553—1598-9. 

Edmund Spenser, one of England's most celebrated 
poets, was born in London in 1553, and entered the 
University" of Cambridge in 1569. In 1580 lie was 
employed as secretary to Lord Grey, then lord-lieu- 
tenant of Ireland ; and a few years afterward was 
presented by the queen (who also gave him a yearly 
pension) with a grant of lands in the county of 
Cork, on condition of his residing there. Here, in 
the ancient castle of the Earls of Desmond, he 
wrote the " Faery Queen," and many other of his 
poems. But a fearful calamity was in store for 
him. In the great insurrection of Tyrone his castle 
was burned, and one of his children perished in the 
flames. Disheartened by poverty, and overpowered 
with grief, he returned to England, and died not 
long after. He was buried by the side of Chaucer, 
in Westminster Abbey, "the garner of England's 
greatness." During his life he struggled much 
against neglect and insolence; but his genius tri- 
umphed at the last, and his name is one remem- 
bered by Englishmen with pride and reverence. 



18 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



THE CAVE OF DISPAIR. 

Ere long they come, where that same wicked wight 
His dwelling has, low in a hollow cave, 
Far underneath a craggy cliff yfright, 
Dark, doleful, dreary, like a greedy grave, 
That still for carrion carcasses doth crave ! 
On top whereof ay dwelt the ghastly owl, 
Shrieking his baleful note, which ever drave 
Far from that haunt all other cheerful fowl, 
And all about it wand'ring ghosts did wail and howl. 

And all about old stocks and stubs of trees, 
Whereon nor fruit nor leaf was ever seen, 
Did hang upon the ragged, rocky knees, 
On which had many wretches hanged been, 
"Whose carcasses were scatter'd on the green. 
And thrown about the cliffs. Arrived there, 
That bare-head knight, for dread and doleful teene, 
Would fain have fled, nor durst approachen near ; 
But the other forced him stay, and comforted in fear. 

That darksome cave they enter, where they find 
That cursed man, low sitting on the ground, 
Musing full sadly in his sullen mind ; 
His grisly locks, long growen and unbound, 
Disorder'd hung about his shoulders round, 
And hid his face, through which his hollow eyne, 
Look'd deadly dull, and stared as astound, 
His raid-lone cheeks, through penury and pine, 
Were shrunk into his jaws, as he did never dine ; 

His garment, nought but many ragged clouts, 
With thorns together pinn'd and patched was, 



EDMUND SPENSER. 19 

The which, his naked sides he wrapp'd abouts. 
And him beside, there lay upon the grass, 
A dreary corse, whose lite away did pass, 
All wallowM in his own yet lukewarm blood, 
That from his wound yet welled, fresh, alas! 
In which a rusty knife fast fixed stood, 
And made an open passage for the gushing flood. 

Which piteous spectacle approving true 
The woful tale that Trevisan had told, 
When as the gentle red-cross knight did view, 
With fiery zeal he burnt in courage bold, 
Him to avenge before his blood was cold ; 
And to the villain said : "Thou wicked wight, 
The author of this fact we here behold ; 
What justice can but judge against thee right, 
With thine own blood to price his blood here shed in sight?" 

" What frantic fit." quoth he, " hath thus distraught 
Thee, foolish man, so rash a doom to give ? 
What justice ever other judgment taught, 
But he should die who merits not to live ? 
None else to death this man despairing drove, 
But his own guilty mind deserving death. , 
Is't then unjust to each his due to give? 
Or let him die that loatlieth living breath? 
Or let him die at ease that liveth here uneath? 

" Who travels by the weary, wand'ring way, 

To come unto his wished home in haste, 

And meets a flood that doth his passage stay, 

Is 't not great grace to help him over past, 

Or free his feet that in the mire stick fast? 

Most envious man, that grieves at neighbours' good 

And fond, that joyest in the wo thou hast, 



20 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Why wilt not let him pass, that long hath stood, 
Upon the bank, yet wilt thyself not pass the flood ? 

" He there does now enjoy eternal rest 
And happy ease, which thou dost want and crave, 
And further from it daily wander est ; 
What if some little pain the passage have, 
That makes frail flesh to fear the bitter wave ? 
Is not short pain well borne that brings long ease, 
And lays the soul to sleep in quiet grave? 
Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, 
Ease after war, death after life doth greatly please." 

The knight much wonder'd at his sudden wit, 
And said, " The term of life is limited, 
Nor may a man prolong nor shorten it ; 
The soldier may not move from watchful sted, 
Nor leave his stand until his captain bid. 
Who life did limit by Almighty doom," 
Quoth he, " know best the term established ; 
And he that points the sentinel his room, 
Doth license him depart at sound of morning drum. 

" Is not His deed, whatever thing is done 
In heav'n and earth ? Did not He all create 
To die again ? All ends that are begun, 
Their times, in His eternal book of fate 
Are written sure, and have their certain date. 
Who then can strive with strong necessity, 
That holds the world in his still changing state, 
Or shun the death ordain'd by destiny"? 
When hour of death lias come, let none ask whence nor why. 

" The longer life, I wot, the greater sin ; 

And greater sin, the greater punishment ; 

All those great battles which thou boasts to win, 



EDMUND SPENSER. 21 

Through strife, and bloodshed, and avengeinent, 
ISToav prais'd, hereafter dear thou shalt repent, 
For life must life, and blood must blood repay. 
Is not enough thy evil life forespent? 
For he that once hath missed the right way, 
The further he doth go, the further he doth stray. 

" Then do no further go, no further stray, 
But here lie down, and to thy rest betake, 
The ill to prevent, that life unserven may. 
For what hath life that may it loved make, 
And gives not rather cause it to forsake ? 
Fear, sickness, age, loss, labour, sorrow, strife, 
Pain, hunger, cold, that makes the heart to quake ; 
And ever fickle fortune rageth rife ; 
All which, and thousands more, do make a loathsome life. 

" Thou, wretched man, of death hath greatest need, 
If in true balance thou wilt weigh thy state ; 
For never knight that dared warlike deed, 
More luckless disadventures did await. 
Witness the dungeon deep, wherein of late, 
Thy life shut up, for death so oft did call ; 
And though good luck prolonged hath thy date ; 
Yet death then would the like mishaps forestall, 
Into the which hereafter thou maist happen fall. 

" "Why then dost thou, O man of sin I desire 
To draw thy days forth to their last degree ? 
Is not the measure of thy sinful hire 
High heaped up with huge iniquity, 
Against the day of wrath to burden thee ? 

" Is not He just that all this doth behold 
From highest heav'n, and bears an equal eye ? 
Shall He thy sins up in his knowledge fold, 



22 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

And guilty be of thine impiety ? 
Is not His law, Let ev'ry sinner die, 
Die shall all flesh ? What then must needs be done ? 
Is it not better to die willingly, 
Than linger till the glass be all outrun? 
Death is the end of woes ; die soon, O fairy's son." .» 

The knight was much enmoved with this speech, 
That as a sword's point through his heart did pierce ; 
And in his conscience made a secret breach, 
Well knowing true all that he did rehearse, 
And to his fresh remembrance did reverse 
The ugly view of his deformed crimes ; 
That all his manly pow'rs it did disperse, 
As he were charmed with enchanted rhymes, 
That oftentimes he quak'd, and fainted oftentimes. 

In which amazement when the miscreant 
Perceived him to waver weak and frail, 
(Whiles trembling horror did his conscience daunt, 
And hellish anguish did his soul assail,) 
To drive him to despair, and quite to quail, 
He show'd him painted in a table plain, 
The damned ghosts that do in torment wail, 
And thousand fiends that do them endless pain, 
With fire and brimstone, which for ever shall remain. 

The sight thereof so thoroughly him dismay'd, 
That nought but death before his eyes he saw ; 
And ever-burning wrath before him laid, 
By righteous sentence of th' Almighty's law. 
Then gan the villain him to over-craw, 
And brought unto him swords, ropes, poison, fire, 
And all that might him to perdition draw ; 
And bade him choose what death he would desire, 
For death was due to him that had provoked God's ire. 



EDMUND SPENSES. 23 

But when as none of them he saw him take, 
He to him brought a dagger, sharp and keen, 
And gave it him in hand ; his hand did quake 
And tremble like a leaf of aspen green, 
And troubled blood through his pale face was seen 
To come and go with tidings from the heart, 
As it a running messenger had been. 
At last, resolv'd to work his final smart, 
He lifted up his hand, that back again did start. 



THE CREATION. 

"What time this world's great Workmaister did cast, 
To make all tjhings such as we now behold, 

It seems that he before his eyes had plast 
A goodly patterne, to whose perfect mould, 

He fashion'd them as comely as he could, 

That now so fair and seemly they appear, 

As naught may be amended anywhere. 

That wondrous patterne, wheresoe'er it be, 
Whether in earth laid up in secret store, 

Or else in heav'n, that no man may it see 
With sinful eyes, for feare it to deplore, 

Is perfect beautie. 



24 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



illiam jS|akqjWL 



1564—1616. 

William Shakspeaee was born at Stratford-upon- 
Avon, in Warwickshire, in 1564. His father was 
a wool-comber, apparently in good circumstances, 
and a man of some note in his little village. The 
poet was the eldest of ten children, and does not 
appear to have been placed in a position very 
favourable to the cultivation of his mind or the 
development of his genius. The habits of his early 
life seem to have been somewhat irregular, and 
widely diverse from the studious and sober applica- 
tion of the scholar. He married, at the age of 
eighteen, the daughter of a neighbouring farmer, 
and eight years his senior ; but soon afterward, 
being detected in robbing the hunting-grounds 
of a nobleman, took refuge in London, where 
he became connected with the stage, first as 
actor, then as author. Here his genius quickly 
distinguished him, and he became the com- 
panion of princes and nobles, and the favourite of 
Queen Elizabeth, who specially interested herself in 
his welfare, and at whose request several of his 
dramas were written. Having won an enduring 
fame, and an ample fortune, he retired from public 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 25 

life to his estate in Stratford, where he resided but 
four years, his death taking place in 1616, on his 
fifty-second birthday. He left three daughters, his 
only son having died in childhood. 

"The grand old poet" passed away like other 
men, and was buried in the great church of his 
native village, where is this inscription upon the 
stone over his tomb : — 

" Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbear 

To dig the dust enclosed here ; 
Blest be the man that spares these stones, 

And curst be he that moves my bones." 

Shakspeare's works consist of thirty-five plays, 
tragedies and comedies, with the poems " Tarquin 
and Lucrece" and " Yenus and Adonis," with a 
number of sonnets, half of which remained in MS. 
seven years after his death, before publication. 
There are also two dramas attributed to him, the 
authorship of which is generally disputed. Dryden 
thus gives his opinion of Shakspeare's genius and 
labours, which Johnson declares to be a " perpetual 
model of encomiastic criticism, exact without 
minuteness, and lofty without exaggeration :" — " He 
(Shakspeare) was the man who, of all modern, and 
perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most 
comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were 
still present to him, and he drew them, not labori- 
ously, but luckily. When he describes anything 
you more than see it — you feel it too. Those who 



26 SELECTIONS FKOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

accuse him to have wanted learning, gave him the 
greater commendation. He was naturally learned ; 
he needed not the spectacles of books to read 
nature ; he looked inward, and found her there. I 
cannot say he is everywhere alike ; were he so, I 
should do him injury to compare him with the 
greatest of mankind. He is many times flat, insipid ; 
his comic wit degenerating into clinches, and his 
serious into bombast. But he is always great, 
when great occasion is presented to him ; no man 
can say he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did 
not then raise himself as high above the rest of 
poets, — 

" Quantum lenta solent inter vibuma cupressiP 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 27 



HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. 

To be — or not to be — tbat is tbe question ; — 

Whether 't is nobler in the mind, to suffer 

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 

And by opposing end them. To die — to sleep 

No more — and by a sleep to say we end 

The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 

That flesh is heir to ; 't is a consummation • 

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die — to sleep — 

To sleep ? — perchance to dream ! Ay, there 's the rub, — 

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 

Must give us pause. There 's the respect 

That makes calamity of so long life ; 

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 

The pang of despised love, the law's delay, 

The insolence of office, and the spurns 

That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 

When he himself might his quietus make 

With a bare bodkin ? Who would fardels bear 

To grunt and sweat under a weary life, 

But that the dread of something after death — 

That undiscovered country, from whose bourne 

No traveller returns — puzzles the will, 

And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 

Than fly to others that we know not of? 

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, 

And thus the native hue of resolution 



28 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, 
And enterprises of great pith and moment, 
With this regard their currents turn awry, 
And lose the name of action. — Act 3, Scene 1. 



MUSIC. 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 

Here will we sit and let the sounds of music 

Creep in our ears ; soft stillness and the night 

Become the touches of sweet harmony. 

Sit, Jessica : look how the floor of heaven 

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ; 

There 's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st, 

But in his motion like an angel sings, 

Still choiring to the young- eyed cherubims, — 

Such harmony is in immortal souls, 

But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 

Doth grossly close us in, we cannot hear it. 

Merchant of Venice. 



A FATHER'S ADVICE TO HIS SON. 

Give thy thoughts no tongue, 
Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. 
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar ; 
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, 
Grapple them to thy sold with hooks of steel, 
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment 
Of each new-hatch'd unfledg'd comrade. Beware 
Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in, 
Bear it, that the opposer may beware of thee. 
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice ; 
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment- 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 29 

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, 

But not expressed in fancy ; rich, not gaudy. 

For the apparel oft proclaims the man, 

And they in France of the best rank and station, 

Are most select and generous, chief in that. 

Neither a borrower nor a lender be, 

For loan oft loses both itself and friend, 

And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. 

This above all — To thine ownself be true, 

And it must follow, as the night the day, 

Thou canst not then be false to any man. 

Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 2. 



VOICE OF THE DYING. 

The tongues of dying men 
Inforce attention like deep harmony. 
Where words are scarce they 're seldom spent in vain, 
For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain. 
He that no more must say, is listen'd more 

Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose ; 
More are men's ends marked than their lives before ; 

The setting sun, and music in the close, 
As the last taste of sweets is sweetest, last ; 

Writ in remembrance, more than things long past. 
PaoHAKD II., Act 2, Scene 1. 



OUTWARD SHOW. 

Poor soul ! the centre of my sinful earth, 
Fool'd by those rebel powers that thee array, 

Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth, 
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay ? 



30 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 

Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? 
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, 

Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? 
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, 

And let that pine to aggravate thy store. 
By terms divine in selling hours of dross ; 

"Within be fed, without be rich no more. 
So shalt thou feed on death that feeds on men, 
And death once dead there 's no more dying then. 



WEALTH THE ARMOUR OF SIN. 

Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear ; ' 
Eobes and furr'd gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold 
And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; 
Arm it in rags — a pigmy's straw doth pierce it. 

Leak, Act 4, Scene 6. 



MACBETH'S MENTAL STRUGGLE. 

If it were done wben 't is done, then 't were well 
It were done quickly ; if th' assassination 
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch 
With its surcease success ; that but this blow 
Might be the be-all and the end-all here; 
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, 
We 'd jump the life to come — but in these cases 
We still have judgment here ; that we but teach 
Bloody instructions, which being taught, return 
To plague th' inventor ; thus even-handed justice 
Commends th' ingredients of our poison'd chalice 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 31 

To our own lips. He 's here in double trust ; 
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, — 
Strong both against the deed ; then, as his host, 
Who should against his murd'rer shut the door, 
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan 
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 
So clear in his great office, that his virtues 
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against 
The deep damnation of his taking off, 
And pity, like a naked new-born babe 
Striding the blast, or heav'n's cherubim, horsed 
Upon the sightless couriers of the air, 
Shall blow the horrid deed in ev'ry eye, 
That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur 
To prick the sides of my intent, but only 
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself, 
And falls on the other side. — Act 1, Scene 7. 



ABUSE OF AUTHORITY. 

O, it is excellent 
To have a giant's strength ! but it is tyrannous 
To use it like a giant. 
Could great men thunder 

As a Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet ; 
For every pelting, petty officer 
Would use his heaven for thunder ; 
Nothing but thunder, merciful heaven ! 
Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, 
Split the unwedgeable and gnarled oak 
Than the soft myrtle, — but man, proud man, 
Drest in a little brief authority ; 
Most ignorant of what he 's most assnr'd, 



32 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

His glassy essence, — like an angry ape, 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heaven 
As make the angels weep, who, with our spleens, 
"Would all themselves laugh mortal. 

Meastjee foe Measuee, Act 2, Scene 2. 



SOLITUDE. 

Are not these woods 
More free from peril than the envious court ? 
Here feel we hut the penalty of Adam, 
The season's difference ; as the icy fang, 
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, 
Which when it bites and blows upon my body, 
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say 
This is no flattery ; these are counsellors 
That feelingly persuade me what I am. 
Sweet are the uses of adversity, 
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ; 
And thus our life, exempt from public haunt, 
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in everything. 

As YOU LIKE IT, AOT 2, SCENE 1. 



A GOOD CONSCIENCE. 

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted? 
Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just, 
And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, 
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. 

Henby VI., Aot 2, Scene 1. 



ROBERT HERRICK. 33 



|Uhrt fnTttL 

Born 1591. 

Robert Herrick: was the son of a goldsmith in 
London, and was educated for the pulpit. His 
private character, it would appear, was rather the 
reverse of his sacred profession, and much of his 
poetry partakes of a widely different spirit from 
that of evangelical piety. In many of his shorter 
poems, however, there is a sweetness and beauty, 
mingled with a sad pensiveness, peculiarly strik- 
ing. He was born in 1591 ; but the time of his 
death is, I believe, unknown. 



THE DAFFODILS. 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon ; 

As yet the early rising sun 

Has not attain'd his noon. 

Stay, stay 

Until the hasting day 

Has run, 

But to the evening song, 

And, having pray'd together, we 

Will go with you along. 
2 * 



34 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

We have short time to stay as you, 

"We have as short a spring, 
As quick a hreath to meet decay, 

As you, or anything. 
"We die 
As your hours do, and dry 
Away. 

Like to the summer's rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning dew, 

Ne'er to be found again. 



TO BLOSSOMS. 



Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 

"Why do ye fall so fast ? 

Tour date is not so past, 
But you may stay yet here awhile 
To blush, and gently smile, 

And go at last. 

"What ! were ye born to be 

An hour or half's delight, 

And so to bid good-night? 
'T was pity Nature brought ye forth, 
Merely to show your worth, 

And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave ; 

And after they have shown their pride, 

Like you, awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 



ROBERT HERRICK. 35 



TIME. 

Gather ye rose-buds -while ye may, 

Old Time is still a-flying ; 
And this same flow'r that smiles to-day, 

To-morrow will he dying. 

The glorious lamp of heav'n, the sun, 

The higher he 's a-getting, 
The sooner will his race be run, 

And nearer he 's to setting. 






36 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



0jjn IStiltfliL 



1608—1674. 



This great poet was born in London, of wealthy 
parents, and was educated at Cambridge. He 
designed entering the Church; but an unwilling- 
ness to conform to some of its requirements, to 
which he thought he could not subscribe with a 
clear .conscience, prevented him, fortunately per- 
haps, from so doing. After leaving the University 
he passed five years in retirement at his father's 
house in Buckinghamshire, employing the time 
in severe study and meditation. He afterward 
travelled through France and Italy, where he 
was treated with much consideration by distin- 
guished literary men and others. The convulsions 
then rending England hastened his return, and 
the poet became merged in the politician. Dr. 
Johnson ridicules Milton as returning to Eng- 
land to rescue her, and then, instead of saving 
her, setting up as schoolmaster. ■ But though 
he opened an academy at London, his powerful 
pen was vigorously and constantly employed in 
defending and advancing the principles he had 
espoused; and his name was known throughout 
Europe as an unbending advocate of the liberty 



JOHN MILTON. 37 

of the Church from the regulations and interference 
of the secular government. 

At the age of thirty-one he was married to Miss 
Mary Powell, the daughter of a royalist. Reared 
in luxury and affluence, she very soon became 
dissatisfied with the humbler lot in which she was 
placed by her marriage, and, after living with her 
husband about the space of a month she left him, 
and returned to her father's house. Her conduct 
doubtless provoked the patience, and wounded the 
sensitive feelings of the poet beyond all endurance, 
and he finally issued a laborious Treatise on Di- 
vorce. This volume roused the indignation of his 
Presbyterian brethren, whereupon he separated 
from them, although he might have had other 
reasons. But three years afterward, when his wife 
desired to return, and her friends were in danger 
from their political belief, he generously forgave 
his incorrigible spouse, and sheltered and protected 
her relatives. In 1652 she died, and six years 
after he married a second time. The lady was 
amiable and affectionate, and the poet was tenderly 
attached to her ; but she died within a year after 
their marriage. Milton was at this time Latin Sec- 
retary of State. A few years previous his sight 
commenced failing, and before the death of his first 
wife was totally lost. lie was, however, still con- 
tinued in his office. Sorrows began to multiply. 
The accession of Cromwell was an unfortunate 
thing for the "liberty party," and the ensuing 



38 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

reign of Charles II. brought new troubles and 
fresh disasters. Milton had sacrificed the most of 
his property in the cause of his country, and 
was now obliged to seek safety in concealment. 
Alone, in obscurity and poverty, the blind man, 
to whom darkness rested upon the outward world, 
but who from that very darkness saw more clearly 
the heart of man, and heard more audibly the 
voice of its contending impulses, passions, and 
reason, set out in his loneliness to walk forward, 
with the clear, strong light of a spiritual knowl- 
edge shining around him. The soul of the poet 
was full of light, but all outside of it was. dark and 
disheartening. His daughters, with the exception 
of the younger, plundered him of all their hands 
could reach, even selling his books, and rendered 
his life unhappy and gloomy. Under these circum- 
stances he married a third time. His last wife is 
said to have nourished and assisted him, and done 
all in her power to make his declining years happy 
and peaceful. He died of gout, in the sixty-seventh 
year of his age. A tomb was erected to his memory 
in "Westminster Abbey in 1737. 

"Paradise Lost" appeared in 1667. He was paid 
five pounds for the first edition of thirteen hundred 
copies, his bookseller promising to pay ten pounds 
in addition upon the sale of two more editions ! 



JOHN MILTON. 39 



HYMN TO THE NATIVITY. 

It was the winter mid, 
While the heaven-born child 
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies : 
Nature, in awe to Him, 
Hath doff' d her gaudy trim, 
"With her great Master so to sympathize : 
It was no season then for her 
To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. 

Only with speeches fair 
She woos the gentle air, 
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow: 
And on her naked shame, 
Pollute with sinful blame, 
The saintly vail of maiden white to throw ; 
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes 
Should look so near upon her foul deformities. 

But He, her fears to cease, 
Sent down the meek-eyed Peace. 
She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding 
Down through the turning sphere, 
His ready harbinger, 
With turtle wing the am'rous cloud dividing ; 
And waving wide her myrtle wand, 
She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. 

No war, or battle's sound, 
Was heard the world around : 
The idle spear and shield were high up hung; 



40 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

The hooked chariot stood 

Unstain'd with hostile blood ; 
The trumpet spate not to the armed throng ; 
And kings sat still with awful eye, 
As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by. 

But peaceful was the night, 
Wherein the Prince of Light 
His reign of peace upon the earth began : 
The winds with wonder whist, 
Smoothly the waters kiss'd, 
Whisp'ring new joys to the mild ocean, 
"Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. 

The stars, with deep amaze, 
Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, 
Bending one way their precious influence ; 
And will not take their flight, 
For all the morning light, 
Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence ; 
But in their glimmering orbs did glow, 
Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. 

And though the shady gloom 
Had given day her room, 
The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, 
And hid his head for shame, 
As his inferior flame 
The new enlighten'd world no more should need : 
He saw a greater Sun appear 
Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear. 



The shepherds on the lawn, 
Or ere the point of dawn, 
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; 



JOHN MILTON. 41 

Full little thought they then, 

That the mighty Pan 
"Was kindly come to live with them helow ; 
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, 
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. 

When such music sweet 
Their hearts and ears did greet, 
As never was by mortal finger strook ; 
Divinely- warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise, 
As all their souls in blissful rapture took : 
The air, such pleasure loth to lose, 
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. 

Nature, that heard such sound 
Beneath the hollow round 
Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling, 
Now almost won 
To think her part was done, 
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ; 
She knew such harmony alone 
Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. 

At last surrounds their sight 
A globe of circular light, 
That with long beams the shame-faced night array'd ; 
The helmed cherubim, 
And sworded seraphim, 
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, 
Harping in loud and solemn choir, 
With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born heir. 

Such music (as 't is said) 
Before was never made ; 
But when of old the sons of morning sung, 



42 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BEITISH POETS. 

While the Creator great, 

His constellations set, 
And the well-balanced world on hinges hung ; 
And cast the dark foundations deep, 
And bid the welt'ring waves their oozy channel keep. 

Eing out, ye crystal spheres ! 
Once bless our human ears, 
If ye have power to touch our senses so ; 
And let your silver chime 
Move in melodious time, 
And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow ; 
And with your nine-fold harmony, 
Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. 

For if such holy song 
Inwrap our fancy long, 
Time will run back and fetch the age of gold ; 
And speckled vanity 
Will sicken soon and die, 
And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould, 
And hell itself will pass away, 
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 

Tea, truth and justice then 
Will down return to men, 
Orb'd in a rainbow ; and, like glories wearing, 
Mercy will sit between, 
Throned in celestial sheen, • 
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering ; 
And Heaven, as at some festival, 
Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. 

But wisest Fate says, No, 
This must not yet be so ; 
The babe yet lies in smiling infancy, 



JOHN MILTON. 43 

That on the bitter cross 

Must redeem our loss ; 
So both himself and us to glorify : 
Yet first, to those enchain' d in sleep, 
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the 



With such a horrid clang 
As on Mount Sinai rang, 
While the red fire and smould'ring clouds outbreak : 
The aged earth aghast, 
With terror of that blast, 
Shall from the surface to the centre shake : 
When, at the world's last session, 

The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his 
throne. 

And then at last our bliss 
Full and perfect is, 
But now begins ; for from this happy day, 
The old dragon under ground, 
In straiter limits bound, 
Not half so far casts his usurped sway ; 
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, 
Swings the scaly horror of his folded tail. 

The oracles are dumb. 
No voice or hideous hum 
Runs through the arched roof in word deceiving. 
Apollo from his shrine 
Can no more divine, 
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. 
No nightly trance, or breathed spell, 
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 



44 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

The lonely mountains o'er, 

And the resounding shore, 
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ; 

From haunted spring and dale, 

Edged with poplar pale, 
The parting genius is with sighing sent ; 
With flower-inwoven tresses torn, 
The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. 

In consecrated earth, 
And on the holy hearth 
The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint ; 
In urns and altars round, 
A drear and dying sound 
Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint : 
And the chill marble seems to sweat, 
While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat. 

Peor and Baalim 
Forsake their temples dim, 
With that twice-bathed God of Palestine ; 
And moaned Ashteroth, 
Heaven's queen and mother both, 
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shrine ; 
The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, 
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz 
mourn. 

And sullen Moloch, fled, 
Hath left in shadows dread 
His burning idol all of blackest hue ; 
In vain with cymbals' ring, 
They call the grisly king, 
In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; 
The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste. 



JOHN MILTON. 45 

Nor is Osiris seen 
In Memphian grove or green, 
Trampling the unshower'd grass with lo wings loud : 
Nor can he be at rest 
"Within his sacred chest ; 
Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud ; 
In vain, with timbrel'd anthems dark 

The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his dusky eyn ; 
Nor all the Gods beside 
Longer dare abide, 
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : 
Our babe, to show his Godhead true, 
Can in his swaddling-bands control the damned crew. 

So when the sun in bed, 
Curtain'd with cloudy red, 
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, 
The flocking shadows pale 
Troop to the infernal jail, 
Each fetter's ghost slips to his several grave ; 
And the yellow-skirted fays 

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved 
maze. 

But see, the Virgin blest 
Hath laid her babe to rest : 
Time is our tedious song should here have ending : 
Heaven's youngest-teem'd star 
Hath fix'd her polish'd ear, 
Her sleeping Lord, with handmaid lamp, attending : 
And all about the courtly stable 
Bright harness'd angels sit in order serviceable. 



46 SELECTIONS FKOM THE BRITISH POETS. 



SPEECH OF BELIAL DISSUADING WAR. 

" I should be much for open war, O peers, 

As not behind in hate, if what were urged, 

Main reason to persuade immediate war, 

Did not dissuade me mose, and seem to cast 

Ominous conjecture on the whole success ; 

When he, who most excels in tact of arms, 

In what he counsels, and in what excels, 

Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair, 

And utter dissolution as the scope 

Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. 

First what revenge ? The towers of heaven are fill'c 

"With armed watch, that render all access 

Impregnable : oft, on the bordering deep, 

Encamp their legions : or with obscure wing, 

Scout far and wide into the realms of night, 

Scorning surprise. Or could we break our way 

By force, and at our heels all Hell should rise, 

"With blackest insurrection, to confound 

Heaven's purest light ; yet our great enemy, 

All incorruptible, would, on his throne, 

Sit unpolluted ; and the ethereal world, 

Incapable of stain, would soon expel 

Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, 

Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope 

Is fiat despair : we must exasperate 

The almighty Victor to spend all his rage, 

And that must end us ; that must be our cure, — 

To be no more. Sad cure ! for Avho would lose, 

Though full of pain, this intellectual being, — 

Those thoughts that wander through eternity, — 



JOHN MILTON. 47 

To perish rather, swallowed up, and lost 
In the wide tomb of uncreated night, 
Devoid of sense and motion ? And who knows 
(Let this be good) whether our angry foe 
Can give it, or will ever ? How he can 
Is doubtful ; that he never will, is sure. 
Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire, 
Belike through impotence, or uuawares, 
To give his enemies their wish, and end 
Them in his anger, whom his anger saves 
To punish endless ? " " Wherefore cease ye then ? " 
Say they who counsel war : " We are decreed, 
Eeserved, and destined to eternal woe : 
Whatever doing, what can we suffer more, 
What can we suffer worse?" " Is this then worst, 
Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms ? 
What, when we fled amain, pursued and struck 
With heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought 
The deep to shelter us ? this hell then seem'd 
A refuge from those wounds ! or when we lay 
Chain'd on the burning lake? that sure was worse. 
What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, 
Awaked, should blow them into seven-fold rage, 
And plunge us in the flames ? or, from above, 
Should intermitted vengeance arm again 
His red right hand to plague us ? what if all 
Her stores were opened, and this firmament 
Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire, 
Impending horrors, threatening hideous fall 
One day upon our heads ; while we, perhaps, 
Designing, or exhorting glorious war, 
Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurl'd, 
Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey 
Of racking whirlwinds ; or, forever sunk 
Under yon boiling ocean, wrapp'd in chains ; 



48 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

There to converse — with everlasting groans, 
Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved, 
Ages — of hopeless end ? — this would be worse. 
War, therefore, open and conceal' d, alike 
My voice dissuades." 



APOSTROPHE TO LIGHT. 

Hail, holy light, offspring of Heaven first-born, 

Or of the Eternal co-eternal beam, 

May I express thee unblamed ? since God is light, 

And never but in unapproached light, 

Dwelt from eternity ; dwelt there in thee, 

Bright effluence of bright essence uncreate !. 

Or hear'st thou rather, pure ethereal stream, 
"Whose fountain who shall tell ? Before the sun, 
Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice 
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 
The rising world of waters dark and deep, 
Won from the void and formless infinite. 

Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, 

Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detain'd 

In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight 

Through utter and through middle darkness borne, 

With other notes than to the Orphean lyre, 

I sung of chaos and eternal night. 

Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture down 
The dark descent, and up to reascend, 
Though hard and rare : thee I revisit safe, 
And feel thy sovereign vital lamp ; but thou 
Kevisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain 
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn : 




APOSTROFHK TO LIQ-HT 



JOHN MILTON. 49 

So thick a drop serene hath quench'd their orbs, 
Or dim suffusion vail'd. 

Yet not the more 
Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt 
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, 
Smit with the love of sacred song ; but chief 
Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath, 
That wash thy hallow'd feet, and warbling flow, 
Nightly I visit : nor sometimes forget 
Those other two equal'd with me in fate, 
So were I equal'd with them in renown ! 
Blind Thamyris, and blind Masonides ; 
And Tiresias, and Phineas, prophets old : 
Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move 
Harmonious numbers ; as the wakeful bird 
Sings darkling, and, in shadiest covert hid, 
Tunes her nocturnal note. 

Thus with the year 
Seasons return ; but not to me returns 
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; 
But clouds instead, and ever-during dark 
Surrounds mo, from the cheerful ways of men 
Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair, 
Presented with a universal blank 
Of Nature's works, to me expunged and razed, 
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. 
So much the rather then, celestial light, 
Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 
Irradiate ; there plant eyes, all mist from thence 
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
Of things invisible to mortal sight. 
3 



50 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



IMAGINARY MEETING OF SATAN, SIN, AND DEATH. 

Meanwhile the adversary of God and man, 
Satan, with thoughts inflamed of highest design 
Puts on swift wings, and toward the gates of hell 
Explores his solitary flight : sometimes 
He scours the right-hand coast, sometimes the left ; 
Now shaves with level wing the deep, then soars 
Up to the fiery concave tow'ring high. 

As when far off at sea, a fleet descried, 

Hangs on the cloud, by equinoctial winds 

Close sailing from Bengala, or the isles 

Of Ternate and Tidore, whence merchants bring 

Their spicy drugs ; they, on the trading flood, 

Through the wide Ethiopian to the Cape, 

Ply stemming nightly toward the pole : so seem'd 

Far off the flying fiend. 

At last appear 
Hell's bounds, high reaching to the horrid roof, 
And thrice threefold the gates : three folds were brass, 
Three iron, three of adamantine rock 
Impenetrable, impaled with circling fire, 
Yet unconsumed. 

Before the gates there sat, 
On either side, a formidable shape : 
The one seem'd woman to the waist, and fair ; 
But ended foul in many a scaly fold. 
Voluminous and vast ; a serpent arm'd 
"With mortal sting : about her middle round, 
A cry of hell-hounds never ceasing bark'd, 
"With wide Cerberean mouths full loud, and rang 
A hideous peal. 



JOHN MILTON. 51 

Far less abhorr'd than these, 
Vex'd Scylla, bathing in the sea that parts 
Calabria from the hoarse Trinacrian shore ; 
Nor uglier follow the night hag, when, call'd 
In secret, riding through the air she comes, 
Lured with the smell of infant blood, to dance 
"With Lapland witches, while the laboring moon 
Eclipses at their charms. 

The other shape, 
If shape it might be call'd that shape had none, 
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb ; 
Or substance might be call'd that shadow seem'd, 
For each seem'd either ; black it stood as night, 
Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell, 
Aud shook a dreadful dart ; what seem'd his head 
The likeness of a kingly crown had on. 

Satan was now at hand, and from his seat 
The monster moving onward, came as fast 
With horrid strides ; Hell trembled as he strook 
The undaunted fiend, what this might be admired ; 
Admired, not feared ; God and his Son except, 
Created thing, naught valued he, nor shunn'd, 
And with disdainful look thus first began : — 

" "Whence, and what art thou, execrable shape ! 
That dar'st, though grim and terrible, advance 
Thy miscreated front athwart my way 
To yonder gates ? through them I mean to pass, 
That be assur'd, Avithout leave ask'd of thee : 
Ketire, or taste thy folly, and learn by proof, 
Hell-born ! not to contend with spirits of heaven." 

To whom the goblin, full of wrath, replied : — 
" Art thou that traitor angel, art thou he 



52 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Who first broke peace in heaven, and faith till then 
Unbroken ; and in proud rebellious arms 
Drew after hini the third part of heaven's sons, 
Oonjur'd against the Highest, for wbich both thou 
And they, outcast from God, are here condemn'd 
To waste eternal days in woe and pain ? 

" And reckon'st thou thyself with spirits of heaven, 
Hell-doom'd ! and breath'st defiance here and scorn, 
Where I reign king : and to enrage thee more, 
Thy king and lord ? Back to thy punishment, 
False fugitive ! and to thy speed add wings, 
Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue 
Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart 
Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before." 

So spake the grisly terror, and in shape, 
So speaking and so threatening, grew tenfold 
More dreadful and deform'd. On the other side, 
Incensed with indignation, Satan stood 
Unterrified ; and like a comet burn'd 
That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge 
In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair 
Shakes pestilence and war. 

Each at the head 
Level'd his deadly aim, their fatal hands 
No second stroke intend ; and such a frown 
Each cast at th' other, as when two black clouds, 
With heaven's artillery fraught, come rattling on 
Over the Caspian ; then, stand front to front,. 
Hov'ring a space, till the winds tbe signal blow, 
To join their dark encounter in mid-air. 

So frown'd the migbty combatants, that Hell 
Grew darker at their frown, so matcb'd tbey stood ; 



JOHN MILTON. 53 

For never but once more was either like 

To meet so great a foe. And now great deeds 

Had been achiev'd, whereof all hell had rung, 

Had not the snaky sorceress that sat 

Fast by hell-gate, and kept the fatal key, 

Risen, and with hideous outcry, rush'd between. 



54 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



amid §tttler. 



1612—1680. 

Samuel Butler, the author of " Hudibras," was the 
son of a farmer in humble circumstances in "Wor- 
cestershire, England. He married a lady of some 
wealth ; but through mismanagement, or by mis- 
fortune, lost everything, and died in poverty. His 
writings were received with great favor, and won 
him a lasting fame. They were collected and first 
published from manuscript copies in 1759. 



SIR HUDIBRAS. 

He was in logic a great critic, 

Profoundly skill' d in analytic ; 

He could distinguish, and divide, 

A hair 'twixt south and southwest side : 

On either which he would dispute, 

Confute, change hands, and still confute ; 

He 'd run in debt by disputation, 

And pay with ratiocination ; 

All this by syllogism true, 

In mood and figure he would do. 

For rhetoric, he could not ope 

His mouth, but out there flew a trope ; 

And when he happen'd to break off 

I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, 



SAMUEL BUTLER. 55 

He had hard word to show you why 

And tell what rules he did it by ; 

Else, when with greatest art he spoke, 

You 'd think he talk'd like other folk ; 

For all a rhetorician's rules 

Teach nothing but to name his tools. 

But when he pleased to show 't, his speech 

In loftiness of sound was rich, 

A Babylonish dialect, 

"Which learned pedants much affect ; 

It was a party-color'd dress 

Of patch'd and piebald languages ; 

'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin 

Like fustian heretofore, on satin. 

In mathematics he was greater 

Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater ; 

Eor he, by geometric scale, 

Could take the size of pots of ale ; 

Eesolve by signs and tangents straight 

If bread and butter wanted weight ; 

And wisely tell what hour o' day 

The clock does strike by algebra. 

Besides, he was a shrewd philosopher, 

And had read every text and gloss over, 

Whatever the crabbed'st author hath 

He understood b 1 implicit faith ; 

Whatever sceptic could inquire for, 

For every why he had a wherefore ; 

Knew more than forty of them do, 

As far as words and terms could go ; 

All which he understood by rote, 

And as occasion served would quote, 

No matter whether right or wrong 

They might be either said or sung. 



56 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



ffljm irgktt* 



1631—1700. 

John Dkyden, the most celebrated poet during the 
reign of Charles II., was born at Aldwinkle, North- 
amptonshire, of a noble family. He was admitted 
to the Oxford University at the age of nineteen. 
His life was full of contradictions. He veered con- 
stantly from one view of a thing to its opposite. He 
espoused republicanism one day, and vindicated 
monarchy the next ; worshiped as a Puritan in all 
sincerity, and then degenerated into the forms and 
easy discipline of the High Church aristocracy, or 
the superstitions of Koman Catholicism. His liter- 
ary tastes, and opinions, and judgments, were ever 
on the wing. Still, like Coleridge and Collins, he 
executed great things, though not the things he 
contemplated. He planned forever, but seldom 
finished planning on one subject before a new idea 
came and bore him away, half resisting, but still 
undecided. Walter Scott asserts that Dryden's life 
was a history of the literature of the age. His 
works are many, consisting in part of dramas, 
(numbering in all twenty-eight,) epistles, fables, 
prologues, and epilogues in great quantity. He 
married unhappily, and during the latter years of 
his life suffered from poverty. 



JOHN DRYDEN. 57 



VENI CREATOR. 

Creator Spirit ! by whose aid 
The world's foundations first were laid, 
Come, visit every pious mind : 
Come, pour thy joys on human kind. 
From sin and sorrow set us free, 
And make thy temples worthy thee. 

O, source of uncreated light, 
The Father's promised Paraclete ! 
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, 
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire : 
Come, and thy sacred unction bring- 
To sanctify us while we sing. 

Plenteous of grace, descend from high, 

Rich in thy sevenfold energy ! 

Thou strength of his Almighty hand, 

Whose power does heaven and earth command ;- 

Proceeding Spirit ! our defense, 

Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, 

And crown'st thy gift with eloquence ! 

Refine and purge our earthly parts; 
But O ! inflame and fire our hearts ! 
Our frailties help, our vice control, 
Submit the senses to the soul : 
And when rebellious they are grown, 
Then lay Thy hand and hold them down. 

Chase from our minds the infernal foe, 
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ; 
And lest our feet should step astray, 
Protect and guide us in the way. 



58 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Make us eternal truths receive, 
And practice all that we helieve ; 
Give us thyself, that we may see 
The Father and the Son by thee. 

Immortal honor, endless fame 
Attend the almighty Father's name ; 
The Saviour Son be glorified, 
Who for lost man's redemption died ; 
And equal adoration be, 
Eternal Paraclete, to thee ! 



NATURAL RELIGION. 

Thus man by his own strength to heaven would soar, 
And would not be obliged to God for more. 
Vain, wretched creature, how art thou misled, 
To think thy wit these godlike notions bred I 
These truths are not the product of thy mind, 
But dropp'd from heaven, and of a nobler kind. 
Reveal'd religion first inform'd thy sight, 
And Reason saw not till Faith sprung the light. 
Hence all thy natural worship takes the source ; 
'Tis revelation what thou think'st discourse. 
Else how com'st thou to see these truths so clear, 
Which so obscure to heathens did appear ? 
Not Plato these, nor Aristotle found : 
NY>r he whose wisdom oracles renown'd. 
Hast thou a wit so deep, or so sublime, 
Or canst thou lower dive, or higher climb ? 
Canst thou by reason more of godhead know 
Than Plutarch, Seneca, or Cicero ? 



JOHN DRYDEN. 59 

Those giant wits, in happier ages horn, 
When arms and arts did Greece and Eome adorn, 
Knew no such system, no such piles could raise, 
Of natural worship, huilt on prayer and praise, 
To one sole God. 

Nor did remorse to expiate sin prescribe, 

But slew their fellow-creatures for a bribe ; 

The guiltless victim groan'd for their offense, 

And cruelty and blood was penitence. 

If sheep and oxen could atone for men, 

Ah ! at how cheap a rate the rich might sin ! 

And great oppressors might Heaven's wrath beguile, 

By offering his own creatures for a spoil ! 

Darest thou, poor worm, offend Infinity ? 

And must the terms of peace be given by thee ? 

Then thou art Justice in the last appeal, 

Thy easy God instructs thee to rebel : 

And, like a king remote and weak, must take 

What satisfaction thou art pleased to make. 

But if there be a Power, too just and strong 

To wink at crimes, and bear unpunish'd wrong, 

Look humbly upward, see His will disclose 

The forfeit first, and then the fine impose ; 

A mulct thy poverty could never pay, 

Had not Eternal Wisdom found the way, 

And with celestial wealth supplied thy store ; 

His justice makes the fine, his mercy quits the score. 

See God descending in thy human frame, 

Th' offended suffering in th' offender's name ; 

All thy misdeeds to him imputed see ; 

And all his righteousness devolv'd on thee. 



60 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



RESIGNATION. 
Be vengeance wholly left to powers divine ! 

If joys hereafter mnst be purchased here 

With loss of all that mortals hold most dear, 

Then welcome infamy and public shame, 

And last a long farewell to fame ! 

'T is said with ease, but O, how hardly tried, 

By haughty souls to human honor tied! 

O, sharp convulsive pangs of agonizing pride ! 

Down, then, thou rebel, never more to rise ! 

And what thou didst, and dost so dearly prize, 

That fame, that darling fame, make that thy sacrifice. 

'T is nothing thou hast given, then add thy tears 

For a long race of unrepenting years ; 

'Tis nothing yet, yet all thou hast to give; 

Then add those may-be years thou hast to live ; 

Yet nothing still ; then poor and naked come ; 

Thy Father will receive his unthrift home, 

And thy blest Saviour's blood discharge the mighty sum. 




RESIGNATION. 



MATTHEW PRIOR. 61 



attbeto Iriflr, 



1664—1721. 

Matthew Prior was, it is supposed, a native of 
London, and received his education at Cambridge. 
Becoming known to some of the influential nobility 
by his talents and tact, he rose from an humble 
station in life to offices of trust and importance. 
Upon the accession of Queen Anne to the crown 
he changed his politics, and joined himself to the 
Tory party, in which he was soon distinguished. 
In 1713 he was sent as embassador to France, and 
employed in many other positions of political promi- 
nence and honor. At the death of the queen the 
Tories were violently persecuted, and many of the 
friends of Bolingbroke and Oxford, their principal 
leaders, were obliged to flee or abide imprisonment 
and disgrace. Prior was recalled from his embassy 
and imprisoned for three years. Upon his release 
Lord Oxford's son purchased him an estate in 
remembrance of his father's friendship ; but the 
poet died not long afterward. The Earl of Oxford 
erected a monument to his memory in Westminster 
Abbey. His works consist of poems written in 
various styles, and on many different subjects. 



62 SELECTIONS FKOM THE BEITISH POETS. 



A SIMILE. 

Dear Thomas, did'st thou never pop 

Thy head into a tinman's shop ? 

There, Thomas, did'st thou never see 

('T is hut hy way of simile) 

A sqixirrel spend his little rage 

In jumping round a rolling cage — 

The cage, as either side turn'd up, 

Striking a ring of bells at top ? 

Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes, 

The foolish creature thinks he climbs ; 

But here or there, turn wood or wire, 

He never gets two inches higher. 

So fares it with those merry blades 

That frisk it under Pindar's shades, 

In noble song and lofty odes, 

They tread on stars, and talk with gods, 

Still dancing in an airy round, 

Still pleased with their own verses' sound ; 

Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, 

Always aspiring, always low. 



CHARITY. 



Did sweeter sounds adorn thy flowing tongue, 
Than ever man pronounced or angels sung ; 
Had I all knowledge, human and divine, 
That thought can reach or science can define, 
And had I power to give that knowledge birth, 
In all the speeches of the babbling earth ; 



MATTHEW PRIOR. 63 

Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire 
To weary tortures, and rejoice in fire ; 
Or bad I faith like tbat wbich Israel saw 
When Moses gave tbem miracles and law; 
Yet, gracious Obarity ! indulgent guest, 
Were not thy power exerted in my breast, 
Those speeches would send up unheeded pray'r ; 
That scorn of life would be but wild despair ; 
A cymbal's sound were better than my voice ; 
My faith were form, my eloquence were noise. ' 
Charity, decent, modest, easy, kind, 
Softens the high, and rears the abject mind ; 
Knows with just reins and gentle hand to guide 
Betwixt vile shame and arbitrary pride. 
Not soon provoked, she easily forgives, 
And much she suffers, as she much believes. 
Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives; 
She builds our quiet as she forms our lives ; 
Lays the rough paths of nature even, 
And opens in each heart a little heaven. 



Each other gift which God 01^ man bestows, 

Its proper bound and due restriction knows ; 

To one fix'd purpose dedicates its power. 

Bnt lasting Charity's more ample sway, 

Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay, 

In happy triumph shall for ever live, 

And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive. 

As through the artist's intervening glass 

Our eye observes the distant planets pass, 

A little we discover, but allow 

That more remains unseen than art can show ; 

So, whilst our mind its knowledge would improve, 

(Its feeble eye intent on things above,) 



64 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

High as we may, we lift our reason up, 

By faith directed, and confirm'd by hope : 

Yet we are able only to survey 

Dawning of beams and promises of day. 

Heaven's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight, 

Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light. 

But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispell'd ; 

The sun shall soon be face to face beheld 

In all his robes, with all his glory on, 

Seated sublime on his meridian throne. 

Then constant faith and holy hope shall die,* 

One lost in certainty and one in joy ; 

Whilst thou, more happy power, fair Charity, 

Triumphant sister, greatest of the three, 

Thy office and thy nature still the same, 

Lasting thy lamp, and unconsum'd thy flame, 

Shalt still survive — 

Shalt stand before the host of heaven confess'd, 

For ever blessing, and for ever bless'd. 

° Neither faith nor hope die in heaven, according to the sacred word. 



ISAAC WATTS, D. D. 65 



Isaac Halts, g. 



167-4—1748. 

This eminent man was a native of Southampton. 
His father was a man of fine education, and for 
some years the principal of a boarding-school for 
young gentlemen, held in high repute ; so much so, 
that many pupils were sent from America to obtain 
an education under his care. From early child- 
hood Isaac Watts displayed an active, industrious 
mind, and a thirst for knowledge, even to a degree 
which was prodigious. At the age of four he could 
read Latin quite correctly, and his perseverance 
and unwavering interest in seeking wisdom con- 
tinued to the close of his life. His parents were 
Protestant Dissenters, and suffered much persecu- 
tion under the reign of Charles II. ; but the poet 
resolved to employ his talents and education en- 
tirely in the sacred work. In entering upon the 
calling to which he had devoted his life, in the 
noble spirit of self-denial and obedience, unhinder- 
ed by its toils, or comparative seclusion from fame, 
he has left a high example of humility, coupled 
with the possession of commanding talents. For 
years he occupied himself with study and devotion, 
and entered not his Lord's vineyard hastily or 



66 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BEITISH POETS. 

unprepared. His usefulness might have been very 
great indeed in this field ; but a constitution natu- 
rally frail, and probably impaired by severe study, 
gave way under his arduous labors, and he was 
obliged to leave his more public duties. In Lon- 
don, where he had been settled, he found a home in 
the house of Sir Thomas Abney, where he lived until 
the time his death, a period of thirty-six years. This 
time was actively employed in the study of divinity 
and philosophy, and in the composition of those 
beautiful songs, the first remembrance of our infancy, 
as well as of poems of a maturer form of expression. 
His works have been published in England in 
six quarto volumes. Most of his writings are theo- 
logical, and consist of sermons and essays, among 
which is the celebrated " Improvement of the 
Mind," to the composition of which he directed his 
attention at intervals for twenty years. 



FREE PHILOSOPHY. 

Custom, that tyranness of fools, 

That leads the learned round the schools, 

In magic charms of forms and rules — * 

My genius storms her throne. 
No more, ye slaves, with awe profound, 
Beat the dull track and dance the round ; 
Loose hands and quit the enchanted ground ; 

Knowledge invites us each alone. 



ISAAC WATTS, D. D. 61 

I hate these shackles of the mind 

Forged by the haughty wise ; 
Souls were not born to be confined, 
And led, like Samson, blind and bound ; 
But when his native strength he found, 

He well avenged his eyes. 

Thought should be free as fire or wind ; 
The pinions of a single mind 

"Will through all nature fly. 
But who can drag up to the poles 
Long fetter'd ranks of leaden souls ? 
A genius which no chain controls, 

Boves with delight, or deep, or high ; 
Swift I survey the globe around, 
Dive to the center through the solid ground, 

Or travel to the sky. 



RICHES. 

I am not concern'd to know 
What to-morrow's fate will do ; 
'T is enough that I can say, 
I 've possess'd myself to-day. 
Then, if haply midnight death 
Seize my flesh, and stop my breath, 
Yet to-morrow I shall be 
Hen- of the best part of me. 
****** 

I 've a mighty part within 
That the world hath never seen, 
Eich as Eden's happy ground, 
And with choicer plenty crown 'd, 



68 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS- 

Here, on all the shining boughs, 
Knowledge fair and useful grows ; 
On the same young flow'ry tree, 
All the seasons you may see ; 
Notions in the bloom of light, 
Just disclosing to the sight ; 
Here are thoughts of larger growth 
Eipening into solid truth ; 
Fruits rehned, of noble taste, 
Seraphs feed on such repast ; 
Here, in green and shady grove, 
Streams of pleasure mix with love ; 
There, beneath the smiling skies, 
Hills of contemplation rise ; 
Now upon some shining top 
Angels light and call me up ; 
I rejoice to raise my feet ; 
Both rejoice when then we meet ; 
There are endless beauties more 
Earth hath no resemblance for. 
Nothing like them round the pole ; 
Nothing can describe the soul: 
'T is a region half unknown, 
That hath treasures of its own, 
More remote from public view 
Than the bowels of Peru — 
Broader 't is and brighter far 
Than the golden Indies are. 

Yet the silly wand'ring mind, 
Loath to be too much confined, 
Eoves and takes her daily tours, 
Coasting round the narrow shores, — 
Narrow shores of flesh and sense, 
Picking shells and pebbles thence ; 



ISAAC WATTS, D. D. 69 

Or she sits at fancy's door, 
Calling shapes and shadows to her ; 
Foreign visits still receiving, 
And t 1 herself a stranger living. 



HYMN OF PRAISE. 

Eternal Wisdom ! thee we praise, 

Thee the creation sings : 
With thy loved name, rocks, hills, and seas, 

And heaven's high palace, rings. 

Thy hand, how wide it spreads the sky, 

How glorious to behold ! 
Tinged with a blue of heavenly dye, 

And starr'd with sparkling gold. 

There thou hast bid the globes of light 

Their endless circuits run : 
There the pale planet rules the night ; 

The day obeys the sun. 

Thy glories blaze all nature round, 
And strike the wond'ring sight, 

Through skies, and seas, and solid ground, 
With terror and delight. 

Infinite strength, and equal skill, 
Shine through thy works abroad: 

Our souls with vast amazement fill, 
And speak the builder God ! 

But the mild glories of thy grace, 

Our softer passions move : 
Pity divine, in Jesus' face, 

We see, adore, and love. 



10 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



THE RESURRECTION OF CHRIST. 

He dies ! the Friend of sinners dies ! 

Lo ! Salem's daughters weep around ; 
A solemn darkness vails the skies, 

A sudden trembling shakes the ground : 
Come, saints, and drop a tear or two 

For him who groan'd beneath your load ; 
He shed a thousand drops for you, — 

A thousand drops of richer blood. 

Here 's love and grief beyond degree : 

The Lord of glory dies for man ! 
But lo ! what sudden joys we see : 

Jesus, the dead, revives again. 
The rising God forsakes the tomb ; 

(In vain the tomb forbids his rise ;) 
Cherubic legions guard him home, 

And shout him welcome to the skies. 



REVERENCE. 



Eternal Power, whose high abode 
Becomes the grandeur of a God : 
Infinite lengths, beyond the bounds 
Where stars revolve their little rounds : 

Thee while the first archangel sings, 
He hides his face behind his wings : 
And ranks of shining thrones around 
Fall worshipping, and spread the ground. 



ISAAC WATTS, D. D. 71 

Lord, what shall earth and ashes do ? 
We would adore our Maker too ; 
From sin and dust to thee we cry, 
The Great, the Holy, and the High. 

Earth, from afar, hath heard thy fame, 
And worms have learn'd to lisp thy name : 
But O ! the glories of thy mind 
Leave all our soaring thoughts behind. 

God is in heaven, and men below : 
Be short our tunes ; our words be few : 
A solemn rev'rence checks our songs, 
And praise sits silent on our tongues. 



ADORATION. 



Before Jehovah's awful throne, 
Ye nations bow with sacred joy ; 

Know that the Lord is God alone, 
He can create, and he destroy. 

His sov'reign power, without our aid, 
Made us of clay, and form'd us men; 

And when like wand'ring sheep we stray'd, 
He brought us to his fold again. 

We '11 crowd thy gates with thankful songs, 
High as the heavens our voices raise ; 

And earth, with her ten thousand tongues, 
Shall fill thy courts with sounding praise. 

Wide as the world is thy command ; 

Vast as eternity thy love ; 
Firm as a rock thy truth shall stand, 

When rolling years shall cease to move. 



12 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



omas lanulL 



1679—1717. 

Thomas Parnell was born in Dublin, and received 
his education at the University of his native city. 
In 1705 he entered the ministry of the established 
Church. Dean Swift and Alexander Pope were his 
intimate friends, the latter of whom he assisted in 
his translation of the works of Homer. Parnell 
appears to have been a man of fine sensibilities 
and refined feelings. The death of his wife, to 
whom he was tenderly attached, impaired his 
health, and, it is said, was the immediate cause of 
his decease. Pope first collected and arranged the 
writings of his departed friend. 



THOMAS PARNELL. 73 



A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH. 

By the blue taper's trembling light 
No more I waste the wakeful night, 
Intent with endless view to pore 
The schoolmen and the sages o'er ; 
Their books from wisdom widely stray, 
Or point at best the longest way. 
I '11 seek a readier path, and go 
Where wisdom 's surely taught below. 
How deep yon azure dyes the sky ! 
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie ; 
While through their ranks, in silver pride, 
The nether crescent seems to glide. 
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, 
The lake is smooth and clear beneath, 
Where once again the spangled show 
Descends to meet our eyes below. 
The grounds, which on the right aspire, 
In dimness, from the view retire ; 
The left presents a place of graves, 
Whose wall the silent water laves. 
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight 
Among the livid gleams of night. 
There pass, with melancholy state, 
By all the solemn heaps of Fate, 
And think, as softly sad you tread 
Above the venerable dead — 
Time was, like thee, they life possess'd, 
And time stiaU be that thou shalt rest. 
4 



74 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Those with bending osier bound, 

That nameless heave the crumbled ground, 

Quick to the glancing thought disclose 

Where toil, and strife, and thought repose. 

The flat smooth stones that bear a name, 

The chisel's slender help to fame, 

(Which, ere our set of friends decay, 

Their frequent steps may wear away,) 

A middle race of mortals own, 

Men half ambitious, all unknown. 

The marble tombs that rise on high, 

Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, 

Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones, 

Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones, 

These all the poor remains of state, 

Adorn the rich, or praise the great ; 

Who, while on earth in fame they live, 

Are senseless of the fame they give. 

Ha ! while I gaze pale Cynthia fades, 

The bursting earth unvails the shades ! 

All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds, 

They rise in visionary crowds, 

And all with sober accent cry, — 

" Think, mortal, what it is to die !" 

Now from yon black and funeral yew 

That bathes the charnel-house with dew, 

Methinks I hear a voice begin — 

(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din ; 

Ye tolling clocks, no time resound, 

O'er the long lake and midnight ground,) 

It sends a peal of hollow groans, 

Thus speaking from among the bones : — 

" When men my scythe and dart siipply, 
How great a king of fears am If 



THOMAS PARNELL. 75 

They view me like the last of things ; 
They make, and then they draw my strings. 
Fools ! if you less provoked your fears, 
No more my specter form appears. 
Death 's hut a path that must he trod, 
If man would ever pass to God. 
A port of calms, a state of ease, 
From the rough rage of swelling seas ! " 
"Why then thy flowing sable stoles, 
Deep pendant cypress, mourning poles, 
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds, 
Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds, 
And plumes of black, that, as they tread, 
Nod o'er th' escutcheons of the dead ? 
Nor can the parted body know, 
Nor wants the soul these forms of woe ; 
As men who long in prison dwell, 
With lamps that glimmer round the cell, 
Whene'er their suff 'ring years are run, 
Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring sun, 
Such joy, though far transcending sense, 
Have pious souls at parting hence. 
On earth and in the body placed, 
A few and evil years they waste ; 
But when their chains are cast aside, 
See the glad scene unfolding wide, 
Clap the glad wing and tower away, 
And mingle with the blaze of day. 



76 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BBITISH POETS. 



dfotoarlr |0Mg, $)♦ $♦ 

1686—1765. 

The author of the " Night Thoughts" was the son of a 
clergyman, and was born at Upham, near Winches- 
ter, the seat of an old and somewhat renowned 
college. He was educated at Winchester and 
Oxford ; and took his degree in 1719 as doctor of 
divinity. He was already distinguished as a sound 
scholar, and a person of fine talents. In 1728 he 
collected and published his " Satires," previous to 
which he had written a " Paraphrase on the Book 
of Job," a poem entitled " The Force of Re- 
ligion ; or, Vanquished Love ; " and the tragedy of 
" Busiris," with a number of smaller poems. About 
this time he was appointed chaplain to George H., 
and is said to have been popular and successful as 
a pulpit orator. He also devoted himself to literary 
pursuits with ardor, and soon issued " Im/perium 
Pelagi" a naval lyric ; an " Ode upon the Ocean ;" 
" An Essay on Lyric Poetry ;" a prose work called 
" A True Estimate of Human Life," and another 
upon the authors of the age ; also a number of pub- 
lished sermons. At the age of forty-five he married a 
daughter of the Earl of Litchfield, who is described as 
having been a person of great intelligence and love- 



EDWARD YOUNG, D. D. 77 

liness. She lived but ten years after their marriage, 
and died greatly lamented by her husband. He 
commenced the composition of his celebrated poem 
soon after her death, and in 1762 published "Resig- 
nation," being nearly eighty years of age. 



PROCRASTINATION. 

Be wise to-day ; 't is madness to defer ; 

Next day the fatal precedent will plead, 

Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. 

Procrastination is the thief of time : 

Year after year it steals till all are fled, 

And to the mercies of a moment leaves 

The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 

If not so frequent, would not this be strange ? 

That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still ; 

Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears » 

The palm, " That all men are about to live," 

For ever on the brink of being born. 

All pay themselves the compliment to think 

They one day shall not drivel, and their pride 

On this reversion takes up ready praise : 

At least their own, their future selves applaud, 

How excellent that life they ne'er will lead ! 

Time, lodg'd in their own hands, is folly's veils; 

That lodg'd in fates, to wisdom they consign ; 

The thing they can't but purpose they postpone. 

'T is not in folly not to scorn a fool ; 

And scarce in human wisdom to do more. 

All promise is poor dilatory man, 

And that through every stage ; when young, indeed, 



78 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

In full content we sometimes nobly rest, 

Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish, 

As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. 

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ; 

Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; 

At fifty, chides his infamous delay, 

Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; 

In all the magnanimity of thought 

Eesolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same. 

And why ? Because he thinks himself immortal. 

All men think all men mortal but themselves ; 

Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate 

Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread ; 

But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, 

Soon close, where pass'd the shaft no trace is found, 

As from the wing, no scar the sky retains ; 

The parted wave no furrow from the keel. 

So dies in human hearts the thought of death, 

E'en with the tender tear which nature sheds 

O'er those we love — we drop it in their grave. 

• Night First. 



NIGHT AND TIME. 

Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep ! 

He, like the world, his ready visit pays 

"Where fortune smiles ; the wretched he forsakes ; 

Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, 

And lights on lids unsullied with a tear. 

From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose 

I wake ; how happy they who wake no more ! 

Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave. 

I wake emerging from a sea of dreams 

Tumultuous ; where my wreck'd desponding thoughts 

From wave to wave of fancied misery 



EDWARD YOUNG, D. D. 79 

At random drove, her helm of reason lost ; 

Though now restored, 't is only change of pain ; 

(A hitter change,) severer for severe ; 

The day too short for my distress, and night, 

E'en in the zenith of her dark domain, 

Is sunshine to the colour of my fate. 

Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne, 

In rayless majesty now stretches forth 

Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world. 

Silence how dead ! and darkness how profound ! 

Nor eye, nor list'ning ear an object finds. 

Creation sleeps ! 'T is as the general pulse 

Of life stood still, and nature made a pause, 

An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. 

And let her prophecy be soon fulfill'd ; 

Fate ! drop the curtain, I can lose no more. 

Silence and darkness ! solemn sisters ! twins 

From ancient Night, who muse the tender thought 

To reason, and on reason build resolve, 

(That column of true majesty to man,) 

Assist me, I will thank you in the grave ; 

The grave, your kingdom. There this frame shall fall 

A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. 

But what are ye ? — 

THOU, who didst put to flight 

Primeval silence, when the morning stars 

Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball ; 

O THOU, whose word from solid darkness struck 

That spark, tbe sun, strike wisdom from my soul ; 

My soul, which flies to Thee, her trust, her treasure, 

As misers to their gold, while others rest. 

Through this opaque of nature and of soul, 

This double night, transmit one pitying ray, 

To lighten and to cheer. O lead my mind, 

(A mind that fain would wander from its woe,) 



80 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Lead it through various scenes of life and death, 
And from each scene the nohlest truths inspire. 

The bell strikes one. "We take no note of time 

But from its loss. To give it then a tongue 

Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, 

I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, 

It is the knell of my departed hours ; 

Where are they ? With the years beyond the flood. 

It is the signal that demands despatch ; 

How much is to be clone ! My hopes and fears 

Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge 

Look down — on what? a fathomless abyss, 

A dread eternity ! how surely mine ! 

And can eternity belong to me, 

Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour ? 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 

How complicate, how wonderful, is man ! 

How passing wonder, HE who made him such I 

Who centre'd in our make such strange extremes I 

From different natures marvellously mix'd, 

Connexion exquisite of distant world ! 

Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain ! 

Midway from nothing to the Deity ! 

A beam ethereal, sullied and absorb' d! 

Though sullied and dishonour'd, still divine ! 

Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 

And heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! 

Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! 

A worm ! a god ! I tremble at myself, 

And in myself am lost ! At home a stranger, 

Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, 

And wond'ring at her own ! How reason reels I 

O, what a miracle to man is man ! 

■it******** 



EDWARD YOUNG, D. D. 81 

All, all on earth is shadow ; all beyond 
Is substance ; the reverse is Folly's creed. 
How solid all, where change shall be no more ! 
This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, 
The twilight of our day, the vestibule ; 
Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, 
Strong death alone, can heave the massy bar, 
This gross impediment of clay remove, 
And make us, embryos of existence, free. 

Yet man, fool man ! here buries all his thoughts ; 

Inters celestial hopes without one sigh ; 

Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon, 

Here pinions all his wishes ; wing'd by Heaven 

To fly at infinite ; and reach it there, 

Where seraphs gather immortality, 

On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God : 

What golden joys ambrosial clust'ring glo^w 

In HIS full beam, and ripen for the just ; 

Where momentary ages are no more ! 

Where time, and pain, and chance, and death expire ! 

And is it in the flight of threescore years, 

To push eternity from human thought, 

And smother souls immortal in the dust? 

A soul immortal, spending all her fires, 

Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness, 

Thrown into tumult, raptured, or alarm'd 

At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, 

Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, 

To waft a feather or to drown a fly. — Night First. 

4* 



82 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



CONSCIENCE. 

Conscience, what art thou ? Thou tremendous power ! 

"Who dost inhabit us without our leave ; 

And act within ourselves, another self, 

A master-self, that loves to domiueer, 

And treat the monarch frankly, as the slave ; 

How dost thou light a torch to distant deeds ! 

Make the past, present, and the future frown ! 

How ever and anon, awake the soul, 

As with a peal of thunder, to strange horrors, 

In this long, restless dream, which idiots hug — 

Nay, which wise men flatter with the name of life ! 



DEATH. 



And feel I, Death, no joy from thought of thee ? 
Death, the great counsellor, who man inspires 
"With every nobler thought and fairer deed ! 
Death, the deliverer, who rescues man ! 
Death, the rewarder, who rescued crowns ! 
Death, that absolves my birth, a curse without it ! 
Rich death, that realizes all my cares, 
Toils, virtues, hopes, without it chimera ! 
Death, of all pain the period, not of joy; 
Joy's source and subject, still subsist unhurt ; 
One, in my soul ; and one, in her great Sire ; 
Though the four winds were warring for my dust ; 
Yes ; and from winds, and waves, and central night, 
Though prison'd there, my dust, too, I reclaim, 



EDWARD YOUNG, I). D. 83 

(To dust when drop proud Nature's proudest spheres,) 
And live entire ; Death is the crown of life. 
"Were death denied, poor men would live in vain ; 
"Were death denied, to live would not he life ; 
"Were death denied, e'en fools would wish to die. 
Death wounds to cure ; we fall, we rise, we reign ! 
Spring from our fetters ; fasten in the skies ; 
Where blooming Eden withers in our sight, 
Death gives us more than was in Eden lost. 
This king of terrors is the prince of peace. 
When shall I die to vanity, pain, death? 
When shall I die ? when shall I live for ever ? 

Why start at death ? Where is he ? Death arrived, 
Is past : not come, or gone, he 's never here. 
Ere hope, sensation fails, black-boding man 
Eeceives, not suffers, death's tremendous blow. 
The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave ; 
The deep, damp vault, the darkness and the worm ; 
These are the bugbears of a winter's eve, 
The terrors of the living, not the dead. 
Imagination's fool, and error's watch, 
Man makes a death which nature made ; 
Then on the point of his own fancy falls, 
And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one. 

Night Fourth. 



FROM THE CONSOLATION. 

As when a traveller, a long day past, 
In painful search of what he cannot find, 
At night's approach, content with the next cot, 
There ruminates, awhile, his labour lost; 



84 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Then cheers his heart with what his fate affords, 

And chants his sonnet to deceive the time, 

Till the due season calls him to repose : 

Thus I, long travelled in the ways of men, 

And dancing with the rest the giddy maze, 

Where disappointment smiles at hope's career, 

Warni'd by the languor of life's evening ray, 

At length have housed me in an humble shed ; 

Where, future wand'ring banish'd from my thought, 

And waiting, patient, the sweet hour of rest, 

I chase the moments with a serious song. 

Song soothes our pains, and age has pains to soothe. 

The sick in body call for aid ; the sick 

In mind are covetous of more disease, 

And, when at worst, they dream themselves quite well. 

To know ourselves diseased is half our cure. 

When nature's blush by custom is wiped off, 

And conscience, deaden'd by repeated strokes, 

Has into manners naturalized our crimes ; 

The cui'se of curses is, our curse to love ; 

To triumph in the blackness of our guilt, 

(As Indians glory in the deepest jet,) 

And throw aside our senses with our peace. 

But grant no guilt, no shame, no least alloy, 

But through the thin partition of an hour, 

I see its sables wove by destiny ; 

And that, in sorrow buried ; this, in shame ; 

While howling furies ring the doleful knell ; 

And conscience, now so soft, thou scarce canst hear 

Her whisper, echoes her eternal peal. 

Where the prime actors of the last year's scene ; 

Their port so proud, their buskin, and their plume ? 

How many sleep, who kept the world awake 

With lustre and with noise ! Has death proclaimed 



EDWARD YOUNG, D. D. 85 

A truce, and hung his sated lance on high ? 
'T is brandish'd still, nor shall the present year 
Be more tenacious of her human leaf, 
Or spread of feeble life a thinner fall 
But needless monument to wake the thought ; 
Life's gayest scenes speak man's mortality ; 
Though in a style more florid, full as plain, 
As mausoleums, pyramids, and tombs. 
What are our noblest ornaments but deaths 
Turn'd flatterers of life in paint or marble, — 
The well-stain' d canvass or the featured stone ? 
Our father's grace, or rather haunt the scene : 
Joy peoples her pavilion from the dead. 
What is the world itself? Thy world?— a gravel 
Where is the dust that has not been alive ? 
The spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors ; 
From human mould we reap our daily bread. 
The globe around earth's hollow surface shakes, 
And is the ceiling of her sleeping sons. 
O'er devastation we blind revels keep, 
While buried towns support the dancer's heel. 
********* 

Where now 
The Roman, Greek? They stalk, an empty name! 
Yet few regard them in this useful light, 
Though half our learning is their epitaph. 
When down thy vale, unlock'd by midnight thought, 
That loves to wander in thy sunless realms, 
O Death! I stretch my view, what visions rise! 
What triumphs ! toils imperial ! arts divine! 
In wither'd laurels glide before my sight! 
What lengths of far-famed ages, billow'd high 
With human agitation, roll along 
In unsubstantial images of air ! 
The melancholy -ghosts of dead renown, 



86 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

"Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause, 

"With penitential aspect, as they pass, 

All point at earth, and hiss at human pride, 

The wisdom of the wise, and prancings of the great. 

Night Ninth. 



THE JUDGMENT-DAY. 

Amazing period ! when each mountain height 

Outburns Vesuvius ; rocks eternal pour 

Their melted mass, as rivers once they pour'd ; 

Stars rush ; and final ruin fiercely drives 

Her ploughshare o'er creation ! while aloft 

More than astonishment ! if more can be ! 

For other firmaments than e'er was seen, 

Than e'er was thought by man ! for other stars ! 

Stars animate, that govern these, of fire — 

For other Sun ! A Sun, O how unlike 

The Babe of Bethlehem! how unlike the man 

That groan'd on Calvary ! yet He it is ; 

That Man of Sorrows ! O how changed ! "What pomp ! 

In grandeur terrible, all Heaven descends ! 

And gods, ambitious, triumph in his train. 

A swift archangel, with his golden wing, 

As blot and clouds, that darken and disgrace 

The scene divine, sweeps suns and stars aside. 

And now, all dross removed, Heaven's own pure day, 

Full on the confines of our ether, flames ; 

While (dreadful contrast) far, how far beneath, 

Hell, bursting, belches forth her blazing seas, 

And storms sulphureous ; her voracious jaws 

Expanding wide, and roaring for her prey ! 



EDWARD YOUNG, D. D. 87 

Lorenzo ! welcome to this scene ; the last 
In Nature's course ; the first in wisdom's thought. 
This strikes, if aught can strike thee ; this awakes 
The most supine; this snatches man from death. 

Night Ninth. 



THE EXISTENCE OF GOD. 

Eetire ; the world shut out ; thy thoughts call home ; 

Imagination's airy wing repress ; — 

Lock up thy senses ; — let no passion stir ; — 

"Wake all to reason ; let her reign alone ; 

Then in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth 

Of Nature's silence, midnight, then inquire, 

As I have done ; and shall inquire no more, 

In Nature's charnel, thus the questions run : — 

" What am I? and from whence? I nothing know 

But that / am ; and since I am, conclude 

Something eternal ; had there e'er been naught, 

Naught still had been ; eternal there must be. 

But what eternal ? "Why not human race ? 

And Adam's ancestors, without an end ? 

That 's hard to be conceived, since every link 

Of that long-chain'd succession is so frail. 

Can every part depend, and not the whole ? 

Yet, grant it true, new difficulties rise ; 

I 'm still quite out at sea, nor see the shore. 

Whence earth, and these bright orbs? — Eternal too? 

Grant matter was eternal, still these orbs 

"Would want some other father ; — much design 

Is seen in all their motions, all their makes ; 

Design implies intelligence and art ; 



88 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

That can 't be from themselves, or man ; that art 

Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow ? 

And nothing greater, yet allow'd than man. 

"Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain, 

Shot through vast masses of enormous weight ? 

Who bid brute matter's restive lump assume 

Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly ? 

Has matter innate motion ? — then each atom, 

Asserting its indisputable right 

To dance, would form an universe of dust ; 

Has matter none ? Then whence these glorious forms 

And boundless flights, from shapeless and reposed ? 

Has matter more than motion ? has it thought, 

Judgment, and genius ? Is it deeply learn'd 

In mathematics ? Has it form'd such laws, 

Which, but to guess, a Newton made immortal? 

If so, how each sage atom laughs at me ! 

Who think a clod inferior to a man ! 

If art to form, and counsel to conduct, 

And that with greater far than human skill. 

Resides not in each block, a Godhead reigns. 

Night Ninth. 



ALEXANDER POPE. 89 



1688—1744. 

This celebrated poet was born near London. His 
father was a merchant in easy circumstances, and 
descended from a noble family. The poet began 
to write at an early age, and from his childhood 
evinced a remarkable love for classical studies and 
English verse. When but twelve years old he 
wrote an " Ode on Solitude," which does not com- 
pare unfavourably with many of his later efforts; 
and he composed the " Pastorals" at sixteen. Dur- 
ing most of his life he suffered severely, and almost 
constantly, from ill-health ; but, notwithstanding, 
accomplished much in the paths of general literature 
and poetry. He was a communicant in the Roman 
Catholic Church, and was a member of the Tory 
party, both of which connexions operated to exclude 
him from court patronage. At the age of thirty the 
profits received from the sale of his works enabled 
him to purchase a beautiful villa on the banks of 
the Thames, which he adorned and fitted up with 
exquisite taste. Thither his parents removed with 
him, and he spent the remainder of his life in retire- 
ment. He died at the age of fifty-six. His works 
are, the "Pastorals," "Odes," "Epistles:' an "Essay 



90 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

on Criticism," written before lie was twenty-one; 
"Essay on Man," "Rape of the Lock," &c, together 
with numerous translations, among which are the 
works of Homer. 



PROVIDENCE. 



Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate ; 
All but the page prescribed their present state ; 
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know, 
Or who coiild suffer being here below ? 
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? 
Pleased to the last, he crops the flow'ry food, 
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. 

O, blindness to the future ! kindly given, 

That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heaven ; 

Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 

A hero perish, or a sparrow fall ; 

Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, 

And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 

Hope humbly, then; with trembling pinions soar; 
Wait the great teacher, Death, and God adore ; — 
What future bliss he gives not thee to know, 
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast ; 
Man never is, but always to oe bless'd ; 
The soul uneasy, and confined from home, 
Bests and expatiates in a life to come. 



ALEXANDER POPE. 91 

Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind, 
His soul proud science never taught to stray 
Far as the solar walk, or milky way. 
Yet simple nature to his hope has given, 
Behind the cloud-topp'd hill an humbler heaven. 
Some safer world, in depth of woods embraced, 
Some happier island in the wat'ry waste, 
Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 

To he, contents his natural desire ; 
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; 
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 
His faithful dog shall bear him company. 
Go, wiser thou ! and in thy scale of sense, 
"Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; 
Call imperfection what thou fanciest such ; 
Say here he gives too little, there too much. 

In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies ; 
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies ; 
Men would be angels, angels would be gods. 
Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, 
Aspiring to be angels men rebel ; 
And who but wishes to invert the laws 
Of order, sins 'gainst the Eternal Cause. 

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan, 
The proper study of mankind is man. 
Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, 
A being darkly wise and rudely great : 
With too much knowledge for the sceptic side, 
With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride, 
He hangs between ; in doubt to act, or rest ; 
In doubt to deem himself a God or beast ; 



92 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

In doubt his mind or body to prefer : 

Born but to die, and reasoning but to err ; 

Alike in ignorance, bis reason such, 

Whether he thinks too little or too much ; 

Chaos of thought and passion, all confused ; 

Still by himself abused or disabused ; 

Created half to rise, or half to fall ; 

Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all ; 

Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd ; 

The glory, jest, and riddle of the world ! 

Go, wond'rous creature ! mount where science guides ; 

Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides ; 

Instruct the planets in what orbs to run, • 

Correct old time, and regulate the sun ; 

Go, soar with Plato to the empyreal sphere,- 

To the first good, first perfect, and first fair ; ' 

Or tread the mazy round his followers trod, , 

And quitting sense call imitating God ; 

As Eastern priests in giddy circles run, 

And turn their heads to imitate the sun. 

Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule — 

Then drop into thyself, and be a fool ! 

Superior beings, when of late they saw 

A mortal man unfold all nature's law, 

Admired such wisdom in an earthly shape, 

And show'd a Newton as we show an ape. 

Could he, whose rules the rapid comet bind, 

Describe or fix one movement of his mind? 

Who saw its fires here rise, and there descend, 

Explain his own beginning or his end ? 

Alas, what wonder ! Man's superior part 

Uncheck'd may rise, and climb from art to art ; 

But when his own great work is but begun, 

What reason weaves, by passion is undone. 



ALEXANDER POPE. 93 

Trace science, then, with modesty thy guide ; 

First strip off all her equipage of pride : 

Deduct what is but vanity or dress, 

Or learning's luxury, or idleness ; 

Or tricks to sIioav the stretch of human brain, 

Mere curious pleasure, or ingenious pain : 

Expunge the whole, or lop the excrescent parts 

Of all our vices have created arts : 

Then see how little the remaining sum 

"Which served the past, and must the times to come ! 

Two principles in human nature reign : 

Self-love to urge, and reason to restrain : 

Nor this a good, nor that a bad we call, 

Each works its end, to move or govern all : 

And to their proper operation still, 

Ascribe all good to their improper ill. 

Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul ; 

Reason's comparing balance rules the whole. 

Man, but for that, no action could attend, 

And, but for this, were active to no end: 

Eix'd like a plant on his peculiar spot, 

To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot ; 

Or, meteor-like, flame lawless through the void, 

Destroying others, by himself destroy'd. 

Most strength the moving principle requires; 

Active its task, it prompts, impels, inspires. 

Sedate and quiet the comparing lies, 

Form'd but to check, deliberate, and advise. 

Self-love still stronger, as its object's nigh; 

Reason 's at distance, and in prospect lie : 

That sees immediate good by present sense ; 

Reason the future and the consequence. 

Thicker than arguments temptations throng, 

At best more watchful this, but that more strong. 



94 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

The action of the stronger to suspend, 
Reason still use, to reason still attend. 

Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, 
As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake ; 
The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds ; 
Another still, and still another spreads ; 
Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace ; 
His country next, and next all human race ; 
"Wide and more wide, the o'erflowings of the mind 
Take every creature in, of every kind ; 
Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty bless'd, 
And Heaven beholds its image in his breast. 

Essay on Man. 



THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. 

Father of all ! in every age, 

In every clime adored, 
By saint, by savage, and by sage, 

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 

Thou Great First Cause, least understood, 

"Who all my sense confined, 
To know but this, That thou art good, 

And that myself am blind ; 

Yet give me, in this dark estate, 

To see the good from ill ; 
And binding Nature fast in Fate, 

Left free the human will ; 

What conscience dictates to be done, 

Or warns me not to do, 
This, teach me more than hell to shun, 

That, more than heaven pursue. 



ALEXANDER POPE. 95 

What blessings thy free bounty gives, 

Let me not cast away ; 
For God is paid when man receives ; 

To enjoy is to obey. 

Yet not to earth's contracted span, 

Thy goodness let me bound; 
Or think thee Lord alone of man, 

"When thousand worlds are round. 

Let not this weak, unknowing hand, 

Presume thy bolts to throw, 
And deal damnation round the land, 

On each I judge thy foe. 

If I am right, thy grace impart, 

Still in thy grace to stay ; 
If I am wrong, ! teach my heart 

To find that better way. 

Save me alike from foolish pride, 

Or impious discontent, 
At aught thy wisdom has denied, 

Or aught thy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another's woe, 

To hide the fault I see ; 
That mercy I to others show, 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholly so, 

Since quicken'd by thy breath ; 
O lead me, wheresoe'er I go, 

Through this day's life or death. 

This day be bread and peace my lot ; 

All else beneath the sun, 
Thou know'st if best bestow'd or not, 

And let thy will be done. 



96 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

To thee, whose temple is all space, 
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies! 

One chorus let all beings raise ! 
All Nature's incense rise! 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 

Vital spark of heavenly flame, 
Quit, O quit this mortal frame. 
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, 
the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life. 

Hark ! they whisper : angels say, — 
Sister spirit, come away ! 
What is this absorbs me quite, — 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, — 
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ? 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 

The world recedes : it disappears ; 
Heaven opens on my eyes ; my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring. 
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I flyl 
grave, where is thy victory? 

death, where is thy sting? 



JAMES THOMSON. 97 



fauus ®|0ms0tL 

1699—1746. 

James Thomson, emphatically styled " the poet of 
nature," was a native of Ednam, in Roxburghshire, 
the son of a clergyman, and was educated for the 
ministry, which he soon abandoned for the pur- 
suits of poetry and general literature. He went to 
London in 1725 in search of fame and fortune, and, 
like many before and after him, obtained the ap- 
plause of men without the substantial evidence of 
their praise. He was, however, rescued from deep 
poverty by the exertions of his friends, and the 
latter part of his life was spent in ease and comfort 
near London. He died at the age of forty-seven. 
His most celebrated works are " The Seasons " and 
the " Castle of Indolence," the first of which is apt- 
ly described by Montgomery as a " biograjxhical 
memoir of the infancy, maturity, and old age of an 
English year." The poem on Indolence, it is said, 
the poet wrote as a satire upon his own " besetting 
sin." 



98 SELECTION'S FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



A MAN PERISHING IN THE SNOW. 

As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce 

All winter drives along the darken'd air, 

In his own loose-revolving fields tlie swain 

Disaster'd stands ; sees other hills ascend, 

Of unknown, joyless brow ; and other scenes, 

Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; 

Nor finds the river, nor the forest hid 

Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on 

From hill to dale, still more and more astray, 

Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, 

Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts of home 

Bush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth 

In many a vain attempt. 

How sinks his soul ! 
What black despair, what horror fills his heart ! 
When for the dusky spot Avhich fancy feign'd. 
His tufted cottage, rising through the snow, 
He meets the roughness of the middle waste, 
Far from the track, and bless'd abode of man; 
While round him night resistless closes fast, 
And ev'ry tempest howling o'er his head, 
Benders the savage wilderness more wild. 
Then throng the busy shapes into his mind 
Of cover'd pits unfathomably deep, 
A dire descent beyond the power of frost ! 
Of faithless bogs, of precipices huge, 
Smooth'd up with snow ; and what is land unknown, 
What water, of the still, unfrozen spring, 
In the loose marsh, or solitary lake, 
Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils, 
These check his fearful steps, and down he sinks 



JAMES THOMSON. 99 

Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, 
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, 
Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots 
Through the wrung bosom of the dying man, 
His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 
In vain for him th' officious wife prepares 
The fire fair blazing and the vestment warm; 
In vain his little children, peeping out 
Into the mingled storm, demand their sire 
"With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! 
Nor wife nor children more shall he behold, 
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve 
The deadly winter seizes ; shuts up sense, 
And o'er his inmost vitals, creeping cold, 
Lays him along the snows, a stiffen'd corse. 



THE AFFLICTED. 

Ah ! little think the gay licentious proud 

"Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround ; 

They who their thoughtless hours in giddy rnirth, 

And wanton, often cruel riot, waste ; 

Ah ! little think they, while they dance along, 

How many feel, this very moment, death, 

And all the sad variety of pain ! 

How many sink in the devouring flood, 

Or more devouring flame ! How many bleed 

By shameful variance 'twixt man and man ! 

How many pine in want and dungeon glooms, 

Shut from the common air, and common use 

Of their own limbs ! How many drink the cup 

Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread 

Of misery ! Sore pierced by wint'ry winds, 



100 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

How many shrink into the sordid hut 
Of cheerless poverty ! How many shake 
"With all the fiercer torture of the mind — 
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse; 
"Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life, 
They furnish matter for the tragic muse! 
E'en in the vale where wisdom loves to dwell, 
With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd, 
How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop 
In deep-retired distress ! How many stand 
Around the death-bed of their dearest friends 
And point the parting anguish ! Thought fond man 
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills 
That one incessant struggle render life 
One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, • 
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd, 
And heedless, rambling Impulse, learn to think ; 
The conscious heart of Ohazity would warm, 
And her wide wish Benevolence dilate ; 
The social tear would rise, the social sigh, 
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, 
Eefining still, the social passions work. 



A WINTER'S STORM. 

Then comes the father of the tempest forth, 
Wrapp'd in black glooms. First joyless rains obscure 
Drive through the mingling skies with vapor foul ; 
Dash on the mountain's brow, and shake the woods, 
That grumbling wave below. Th' unsightly plain 
Lies a brown deluge ; as the low-bent clouds 
Pour flood on flood, yet unexhausted still 
Combine, and, deepening into night, shut up 



JAMES THOMSON. 101 

The day's fair face. The wanderers of heaven 

Each to his home retire ; save those that love 

To take their pastime in the troubled air, 

Or skimming flutter round the dimply pool. 

The cattle from th' untasted fields return, 

And ask, with moaning low, their wonted stalls, 

Or ruminate in the contiguous shade. 

Thither the household feathery people crowd, 

The crested cock, with all his female train, , 

Pensive and dripping ; while the cottage hind 

Hangs o'er th' enlivening blaze, and taleful there 

Eecounts his simple frolic ; much he talks 

And much he laughs, nor recks the storm that blows 

Without, and rattles on his humble roof. 

Wide o'er the brim, with many a torrent swell'd, 

And the mis'd ruin of its banks o'erspread, 

At last the roused-up river pours along ; 

Eesistless, roaring dreadful, down it comes, 

From the rude mountain and the mossy wild, 

Tumbling through rocks abrupt, and sounding far ; 

Then o'er the sanded valley floating spreads, 

Calm, sluggish, silent; till again, constrain'd 

Between two meeting hills, it bursts away 

Where rocks and woods o'erhang the turbid stream : 

There gathering triple force, rapid and deep, 

It boils, and wheels, and foams, and thunders through. 



When from the pallid sky the sun descends, 
With many a spot that o'er his glaring orb 
Uncertain wanders, stain'd ; red, flery streaks 
Begin to flash around. The reeling clouds 
Stagger with dizzy poise, as doubting yet 
Which master to obey : while rising slow, 
Blank, in the leaden-cnlour'd east, the moon 



102 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

"Wears a wan circle round her blunted horns. 

Seen through the turbid, fluctuating air, 

The stars obtuse emit a shiver'd ray ; 

Or frequent seen to shoot athwart the gloom, 

And long behind them trail the whitening blaze. 



Ocean, unequal press' d, with broken tide 

And blind commotion heaves ; while from the shore, 

Eat into caverns by the restless wave, 

And forest-nestling mountain, comes a voice 

That, solemn sounding, bids the world prepare. 

Then issues forth the storm with sudden burst, 

And hurls the whole precipitated air 

Down in a torrent. On the passive main 

Descends the ethereal force, and with strong gust 

Turns from its bottom the discolour'd deep. 

Through the black night, that sits immense around, 

Lash'd into foam, the fierce conflicting brine 

Seems o'er a thousand raging waves to burn ; 

Meantime, the mountain billows to the clouds 

In dreadful tumult swell'd, surge above surge, 

Burst into chaos with tremendous roar, 

And anchor'd navies from their stations drive, 

"Wild as the winds, across the howling waste 

Of mighty waters ; now th' inflated wave 

Straining they scale, and now impetuous shoot 

Into the secret chambers of the deep, 

The wintry Baltic thundering o'er their head. 

Emerging thence, again before the breath 

Of full-exerted heaven they wing their course, 

And dart on distant coasts, if some sharp rock, 

Or shoal insidious, break not their career, 

And in loose fragments fling them floating round. 

Nor less on land the loosen'd tempest reigns, 



JAMES THOMSON. 103 

The mountain thunders, and its sturdy sons 

Stoop to the bottom of the rocks they shade, 

Lone on the midnight steep, and all aghast, 

The dark wayfaring stranger breathless toils, 

And often falling, climbs against the blast. 

Low waves the rooted forest, vex'd, and sheds 

What of its tarnish'd honours yet remain; 

Dash'd down and scattered by the tearing wind's 

Assiduous fury, its gigantic limbs. 

Thus struggling through the dissipated grove, 

The whirling tempest raves along the plain ; 

And on the cottage thatch'd, or lordly roof, 

Keen fastening, shakes them to the solid base. 

Sleep frighted flies, and round the rocking dome 

For entrance, eager howls the savage blast ; 

Then too, they say, through all the burden'd air 

Long groans are heard, shrill shrieks and distant sighs, 

That, utter'd by the demon of the night, 

"Warn the devoted wretch of woe and death. 

Huge uproar lords it wide. The clouds commix'd, 

"With stars swift gliding, sweep along the sky. 

All nature reels. Till nature's King, who oft 

Amid tempestuous darkness dwells alone, 

And on the wings of the careening wind 

Walks dreadfully serene, commands a calm ; 

Then straight air, sea, and earth are hush'd at once. 



'T is done ! dread "Winter spreads his latest glooms, 

And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year. 

How dead the vegetable kingdom lies ! 

How dumb the tuneful ! Horror wide extends 

His desolate domain. Behold, fond man ! 

See here thy pictured life ; pass some few years, 

Thy flowering spring, thy summer's ardent strength, 



104 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Thy sober autumn, fading into age, 

And pale concluding winter conies at last 

And shuts the scene. Ah ! whither now are fled 

Those dreams of greatness ? those unsolid hopes 

Of happiness? those longings after fame? 

Those restless cares ? those busy, bustling days ? 

Those gay-spent, festive nights ? those veering thoughts 

Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life ? 

All now are vanish'd ! Virtue sole survives, 

Immortal, never-failing friend of man, 

His guide to happiness on high. And see ! 

'T is come, the glorious morn ! the second birth 

Of heaven and earth ! awak'ning nature hears 

The new creating word, and starts to life 

In every heightened form, from pain and death - 

Forever free. The great eternal scheme, 

Involving all, and in a perfect whole 

Uniting, as the prospect wider spreads, 

To Season's eye refined, clears up apace. 

Ye vainly wise ! ye blind presumptuous ! now 

Confounded in the dust, adore that power 

And wisdom oft arraign'd ; see now the cause 

Why unassuming worth in secret lived, 

And died neglected ; why the good man's share 

In life was gall and bitterness of soul ; 

Why the lone widow and her orphans pined 

In starving solitude ; while luxury 

In palaces lay straining her low thought 

To form unreal wants ; why heaven-born Truth 

And Moderation fair wore the red marks 

Of Superstition's scourge ; why licensed pain, 

That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe, 

Embitter'd all our bliss. Ye good distress'd ! 

Ye noble few ! who here unbending stand 

Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile, 



JAMES THOMSON. 105 

And what your bounded view, which only saw 
A little part, deem'd evil, is no more ; 
The storms of wintry time will quickly pass, 
And one unbounded spring encircle all. — "Winter. 



FROM THE "CASTLE OF INDOLENCE." 

Their only labour was to kill the time ; 

And labour dire it is, and weary woe. 
They sit, and loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme ; 

Then rising sudden, to the glass they go, 

To saunter forth, with tott'ring step and slow. 
This soon too rude an exercise they find ; 

Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw, 
Where hours on hours they sighing he reclined, 
And court the vapoury god soft breathing in the wind. 
5* 



106 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



S^mas <irag + 



1716—1771. 

Thomas Gray was the son of a London scrivener 
in limited circumstances. He spent the greater 
part of his life in seclusion at Cambridge, caring 
little for the society of others, and studying solely 
for his own amusement. He was a man of pro- 
found learning, and of great attainments as a 
scholar. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the heetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
The moping owl does to the moon complain, 

Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitai'y reign. 



THOMAS GRAY. 107 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike th' inevitable hour: — 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 

Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust? 
Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death ? 



108 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS- 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest — 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride, 
"With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madd'ning crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 

Along the cool sequester' d vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 



THOMAS GRAY. 109 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, 

The place of tame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er l-esign'd, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ! 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate ; 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; 

Now drooping, woefid-wan, like one forlorn, 
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 



110 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

" One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill, 
Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree ; 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. 

" The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow through the church- way path we saw him borne : 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. . 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, 

He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode ; 

There they alike in trembling hope repose, 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



WILLIAM COLLINS. Ill 



llillkra Collins, 

1720— 1756. 

"William Collins was the son of a hatter, and was 
born in Chichester, in Sussex. His whole life was 
imbittered b y poverty and neglect ; and his latter 
days were doubly obscured by the curse of insanity. 
For a few years before his death he shared the 
kind care and love of his sister, who amid all his 
misfortunes had never forsaken or forgotten him. 
His name is now remembered, while those of the 
wealthy and proud who trampled him down have 
passed away forever. 



THE PASSIONS. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Throng'd around her magic cell, 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting : 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined ; 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatch'd her instruments of sound ; 



112 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BEITISH POETS. 

And, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each (for Madness ruled the hour) 
"Would prove his own expressive power. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, 
And hack recoil'd, he knew not why, 

E'en at the sound himself had made. 

Next Anger rush'd ; his eyes on fire, 
In lightnings own'd his secret stings ; 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 

And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woeful measures wan Despair, 
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled ; 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild- 

But thou, O Hope ! with eyes so fair, 

"What was thy delighted measure ? 

Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 

Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 

She call'd on Echo still, through all the song, 
And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, 
And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. 
And longer had she sung ; — but, with a frown, 

Revenge impatient rose : 
He threw his blood-stain'd sword, in thunder, down ; 

And, with a withering look, 

The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
"Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ! 



WILLIAM COLLIN'S. 113 

And, ever and anon, he beat 
The doubling drum with furious heat ; 
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, 
Dejected Pity, at his side, 
Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, 
"While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his 
head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fix'd ; 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd ; 

And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate. 

"With eyes upraised, as one inspired ; 

Pale Melancholy sat retired; 

And, from her wild sequester'd seat, 

In notes by distance made more sweet, 
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul : 

And, dashing soft from rocks around, 

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ; 
Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, 

Round an holy calm diffusing, 

Love of Peace, and lonely musing, 
In hollow murmurs died away. 
But O! how alter 1 d was its sprightlier tone, 

"When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 
Her bow across her shoulder flung ! 

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, 

Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung, 
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known. 

The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen, 

Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen, 

Peeping forth from their alleys green: 



114 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; 

And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 

He with viny crown advancing, 
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd ; 

But soon he saw the brisk awak'ning viol, 
"Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best ; 
They would have thought, who heard the strain, 

They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, 

Amid the festal sounding shades, 

To some unwearied minstrel dancing; 
"While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 

Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round ; 

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; 

And he, amid his frolic play, 

As if he would the charming air repay, 
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. 

O Music ! sphere-descended maid, 
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid ! 
Why, goddess ! why, to us denied, 
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? 
As, in that loved Athenian bower, 
You learn'd an all-commanding power, 
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd, 
Can well recall what then it heard ; 
"Where is thy native simple heart, 
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? 
Arise, as in tbat elder time, 
"Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime! 
Thy wonders, in that godlike age, 
Fill thy recording Sister's page, — 
'Tis said, and I believe the tale, 
Tby humblest reed could more prevail, 



WILLIAM COLLINS. 115 

Had more of strength, diviner rage, 
Than all which charms this laggard age ; 
E'en all at once together found, 
Cecilia's mingled world of sound — 
O bid our vain endeavours cease ! 
Kevive the just designs of Greece ! 
Return, in all thy simple state ! 
Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 



HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE? 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 
By all their country's wishes blest! 
"When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung ; 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 



116 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



ark ^fuimJrt 



1721—1770. 

The author of " The Pleasures of the Imagination " 
was a native of Newcastle, and " had the misfor- 
tune " to he the son of a butcher, of which hg was 
afterward foolishly ashamed. His parents were 
rigid Presbyterians, and designed their son for the 
ministry; but he preferred the study of medicine, 
which he pursued at the Universities of Edinburgh 
and Leyden. He commenced writing poetry at an 
early age. His poem on "The Pleasures of the 
Imagination" was received with great favour. He 
was also the author of several medical works of 
considerable celebrity. His manners, like his 
poetry, were stiff and precise — every movement 
educated and trimmed to the last degree. But 
notwithstanding the laborious and often wearisome 
style of his writings, their strong common-sense 
must ever keep them alive. 



MARK AKENSIDE. 117 



FROM "THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION." 

Say, why was man so eminently raised 

Amid the vast creation ? why ordain 1 d 

Through life and death to dart his piercing eye 

With thoughts heyond the limit of his frame ? — 

But that the Omnipotent might send him forth 

In right of mortal and immortal powers, 

As on a boundless theatre, to run 

The great career of justice, to exalt 

His generous aim to all diviner deeds ; 

To chase each partial purpose from his breast, 

And through the mists of passion and of sense, 

And through the tossing tide of chance and pain, 

To hold his course unfaltering, while the voice 

Of Truth and Virtue, up the steep ascent 

Of Nature, calls him to his high reward, 

Th 1 applauding smile of Heaven. Else, wherefore burns 

In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope, 

That breathes from day to day sublimer things, 

And mocks possession ? "Wherefore darts the mind 

With such resistless ardour to embrace 

Majestic forms; impatient to be free, 

Spurning the gross control of wilful might ; 

Proud of the strong contention of her toils ; 

Proud to be daring ? Who but rather turns 

To Heaven 1 s broad fire his unconstrained view, 

Than to the glimmering of a waxen flame? 

The high-born soul 
Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing 
Beneath its native quarry. Tired of earth 
And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft 
Through fields of air ; pursues the flying storm ; 



118 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Eides on the volley'd lightning through the heavens ; 
Or, yoked with whirlwinds and the northern hlast, 
Sweeps the long track of day. Then high she soars 
The blue profound, and hovering round the sun, 
Beholds him pouring the redundant stream 
Of light ; beholds his unrelenting sway 
Bend the reluctant planets to abide 
The fated rounds of Time. Thence far effused, 
She darts her swiftness up the long career 
Of devious comets. Through its burning signs 
Exulting, measures the perennial wheel 
Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars, 
"Whose blended light, as with a milky zone, 
Invests the orient. Now amazed she views 
Th' empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold, 
Beyond this concave heaven, their calm abode ; 
And fields of radiance, Avhose unfading light 
Has travell'd the profound six thousand years, 
Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. 
Even on the barriers of the world untried 
She meditates the eternal depth below ; 
Till half-recoiling, down the headlong steep 
She plunges ; soon o'erwhelmed and swallow'd up 
In that immense of being. There her hopes 
Rest at the fated goal. Far from the birth 
Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said, 
That not in humble, nor in brief delight, 
Not in the fading echoes of renown, 
Power's purple robes, nor pleasure's flowery lap, 
The soul should find enjoyment ; but from these 
Turning disdainful to an equal good, 
Through all the ascent of things enlarge her views, 
Till every bound at length should disappear, 
And infinite perfection close the scene. 
******* 



MARK AKENSIDE. 119 

Call now to mind what high capacious powers 

Lie folded up in man ; how far heyond 

The praise of mortals, may the eternal growth 

Of Nature to perfection, half divine, 

Expand the blooming soul ! "What pity, then, 

Should sloth's unkindly fogs depress to earth 

Her tender blossom ; choke the streams of life, 

And blast her spring ! Far otherwise design'd 

Almighty "Wisdom : Nature's happy cares 

The obedient heart far otherwise incline. 

"Witness the sprightly joy when anght unknown 

Strikes the quick sense, and wakes each active power 

To brisker measures: witness the neglect 

Of all familiar prospects, though beheld 

"With transport once ; the fond attentive gaze 

Of young astonishment; the sober zeal 

Of age, commenting on prodigious things ; 

For such the bounteous Providence of Heaven, 

In every breast implanting this desire 

Of objects new and strange, to urge us on 

"With unremitted labour to pursue, 

Those sacred stores that wait the ripening soul, 

In Truth's exhaustless bosom. What need words 

To point its power ! For this the daring youth 

Breaks from his weeping mother's anxious arms 

In foreign climes to roam ; the pensive sage, 

Heedless of sleep, or midnight's harmful damp, 

Hangs o'er the sickly taper. 

Nor this alone ; the various lot of life 
Oft from external circumstance assumes 
A moment's disposition to rejoice 
In those delights which at a different hour 
"Would pass unheeded. Fair the face of Spring 
"When rural songs and odours wake the morn 
To every eye ; but how much more to his 



120 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Round whom the bed of sickness long diffused 
Its melancholy gloom ! how doubly fair, 
When first with fresh-born vigour he inhales 
The balmy breeze, and feels the blessed Sun 
Warm at his bosom, from the springs of life 
Chasing oppressive damps and languid pain! 

Different minds 
Incline to different objects ; one pursues 
The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild ; 
Another sighs for harmony and grace, 
And gentlest beauty. Hence, when lightning fires 
The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the ground, 
When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air, 
And Ocean, groaning from his lowest bed, 
Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky ; 
Amid the mighty uproar, while below 
The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad 
From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys 
The elemental war ; but Waller longs, 
All on the margin of some flowery stream, 
To spread his careless limbs amid the cool 
Of plantain shades, and to the listening ear 
' The tale of slighted vows, and love's disdain, 
Resound soft warbling all the livelong day. 

$ . ^e s£ Up % % Hs N* 

Such and so various are the tastes of men ! 

O, bless'd of Heaven ! whom not the languid songs 

Of Luxury, the siren; not the bribes 

Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils 

Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave - 

Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store 

Of Nature fair Imagination calls 

To charm the enliven'd soul ! What though not all 

Of mortal offspring can attain the heights 



MARK AKENSIDE. 121 

Of envied lite ; though only few possess 
Patrician treasures or imperial state ; 
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just, 
With richer treasures and an ampler state, 
Endows at large, whatever happy man 
"Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp, 
The rural honours his. "Whate'er adorns 
The princely dome, the column, and the arch, 
The breathing marble and the sculptur'd gold, 
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, 
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the spring 
Distills her dews, and from the silken gem 
Its lucid leaves unfold ; for him the hand 
Of autumn tinges every fertile branch 
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. 
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings ; 
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, 
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze 
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes 
The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain 
From all the tenants of the warbling shade 
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake 
Fresh pleasure unreproved. Nor thence partakes 
Fresh pleasure only ; for the attentive mind, 
By this harmonious action on her powers, 
Becomes herself harmonious. Wont so oft 
In outward things to meditate the charm 
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home 
To find a kindred order, — to exert 
Within herself this elegance of love, 
This fair inspired delight; her temper'd powers 
Refine at length, and every passion wears 
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. 
6 



122 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



1728—1774. 

The author of the " Traveller" and the " Deserted 
Village" was the son of an Irish curate in very- 
humble circumstances. He was, however, favoured 
with good opportunities for education, and spent 
some time at the Universities of Dublin and Edin- 
burgh. Soon after he made a tour of Europe, on 
foot; earning his daily bread by playing on his 
flute for the amusement of the peasantry. After 
returning to England he formed the acquaintance 
of Johnson, who induced him to publish the 
" Traveller." He was soon regarded as a poet of 
high rank; but his irregular habits kept him in 
constant poverty. 

Aside from his two principal poems, he wrote a 
number of prose works, ballads, and comedies. 
His prose works are, " The Yicar of Wakefield," 
" Polite Learning in Europe," and a series of essays 
entitled the " Citizen of the World ;" with histories 
of Rome, Greece, and England. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 123 



THE VILLAGE PASTOR. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 

And still where many a garden flower grows wild, 

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 

The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 

A man he was to all the country dear, 

And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 

Eemote from towns he ran his godly race, 

Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place : 

Unpracticed he to fawn or seek for power, 

By doctrines fashion'd to the varying horn* : 

Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 

More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise ; 

His house was known to all the vagrant train, 

He chid their wand'rings but relieved their pain ; 

The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, 

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 

The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 

Claim'd kindred there, and had his claim aUow'd ; 

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 

Sat by his fire and talk'd the night away : 

"Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 

Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. 

Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, 

And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 

Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 

His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 

And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; 

But in his duty prompt at every call, 

He watch'd and wept, ho felt and pray'd for all ; 

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 



124 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 

And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd, 

The reverend champion stood. At his control 

Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 

And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 

His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 

Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 

And fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray. 

The service past, around the pious man 

With ready zeal each honest rustic ran ; 

E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, 

And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile : 

His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd ; 

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd ; 

To them his hearf, his love, his griefs were given, 

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 

SweUs from the vale and midway leaves the storm, 

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 

Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 



THE VILLAGE SCHOOL-MASTER, 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way 
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, 
There in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
The village master taught his little school. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 125 

A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 

I knew him well, and every truant knew; 

"Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 

The day's disasters in his morning face ; 

Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee, 

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 

Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 

Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd ; 

Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, 

The love he bore to learning was in fault. 

The village all declared how much he knew, 

'T was certain he could write and cipher too ; 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 

And e'en the story ran that he could gauge; 

In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, 

For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ; 

While words of learned length and thundering sound, 

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 

The Deserted Village. 



126 SELECTION'S FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



Hilliam Cfltopr. 

1731—1800. 

" The author of 'The Task' was born at Berkham- 
stead, November 26th, 1731, and was the son of 
the rector of that place. His constitution was 
highly delicate, and his feelings nervously sus- 
ceptible. It is no wonder, therefore, that the 
tyranny of his seniors at Westminster school, 
inspired him with a disgust of all such public estab- 
lishments, — a disgust which he afterward forcibly 
expressed in his 'Tirocinium.' He was articled 
for three years to an attorney, and subsequently 
studied at the Temple, but seems to have acquired 
no great relish for legal knowledge. So extreme 
was his dread of being placed in any conspicuous 
situation, that being unexpectedly called upon to 
attend at the bar of the House of Lords as clerk 
of the journals, his agitation of mind not only 
compelled him to resign his post, but terminated 
in insanity. That disorder was heightened by his 
sense of sin, without any clear ideas of the way 
of salvation. In this state of mind he repeatedly 
attempted suicide ; but, by a most merciful Prov- 
idence, his attempts were defeated. He was placed 



WILLIAM COWPER. 127 

under the care of the excellent Dr. Cotton, by whose 
tender assiduities his mind was soothed, and led to 
the knowledge of the Saviour. A correct under- 
standing of Romans iii, 25, 26, accompanied with 
the spirit of faith, opened the heart of Cowper to a 
flood of holy peace, hope, and joy. From this time 
his health began rapidly to improve. After he 
recovered he took up his residence, in 1765, with 
the Rev. Mr. Unwin, of Huntingdon. That gentle- 
man died in 1767, but Cowper continued to reside 
with his widow, at Olney, in Buckinghamshire, and 
then at Weston, till her death in 1796. It was at 
Olney his acquaintance commenced with the Rev. 
John Newton, whose friendship, as well as that of 
Mrs. Unwin, was the source of great comfort to him 
under the distressing nervous malady which haunted 
his delicate spirit to the last. From 1773 to 1778, 
and from 1794 till his decease, which took place at 
Dereham, in Norfolk, April 25th, 1800, with little 
intermission he suffered again under the scourge of 
insanity. In the mean while, however, he gained 
imperishable fame by his writings. 'The Task' 
appeared in 1781. Of his subsequent works, the 
principal is a blank-verse translation of Homer, 
which has not become popular. It is a curious 
fact, that his humorous ballad of John Gilpin was 
written at a time when he was a prey to the deepest 
melancholy. His letters, which are models of that 
kind of composition, have been given to the world 
since his death. All his poems bear marks of 



128 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

mature authorship, his accurate rather than ex- 
tensive scholarship, and his unwearied desire 
to benefit mankind. His Christian life, though 
oppressed by disease, was pure, useful, and 
lovely; and even while suffering under the de- 
ranged idea that he was an exception to God's 
general plan of grace, — a deranged idea which 
hung like a cloud over his soul during the last 
years of his life, — it is delightful to perceive that it 
had no tendency to lead him aside from the path 
of rectitude, or to relax in the least his efforts to 
maintain the life of religion in his soul. His last 
accents were those of the most perfect and touch- 
ing acquiescence in the will of God, with whom, 
we doubt not, his harassed spirit is now at rest. 
What a moment was that which dispelled forever 
its gloom." — Taylor's Life of Cowjper. 



THE INFIDEL AND THE CHRISTIAN. 

The path to bliss abounds with many a snare ; 

Learning is one, and wit, however rare, 

The Frenchman first in literary fame, 

(Mention him, if you please. Voltaire? The same.) 

"With spirit, genius, eloquence supplied, 

Lived long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily, and died. 

The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew 

Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew ; 



WILLIAM COWPER. 129 

An infidel in health, "but what when sick? 
O ! then a text would touch him at the quick : 
View him at Paris, in his last career, 
Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere ; 
Exalted on his pedestal of pride, 
And fann'd with frankincense on every side, 
He begs then* flattery with his latest breath, 
And smother'd in't at last, is praised to death. 
Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door 
Pillow and bobbins, all her little store, 
Content, though mean, and cheerful, if not gay, 
Shuffling her thread about the live-long day, 
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night 
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket fight ; 
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit, 
Has little understanding, and no wit ; 
Keceives no praise ; but, though her lot be such, 
(Toilsome and indigent,) she renders much : 
Just knows — and knows no more — her Bible true, 
A truth tbe brilliant Frenchman never knew ; 
And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes, 
Her title to a treasure in the skies. 

O happy peasant ! O unhappy bard ! 
His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward; 
He praised, perhaps, for ages yet to come, 
She never heard of half a mile from home ; 
He lost in errors his vain heart prefers, 
She safe in the simplicity of hers. 



130 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



MOVEMENT AND ACTION THE LIFE OF NATURE. 

By ceaseless action all that is subsists. 

Constant rotation of th' unwearied wheel, 

That Nature rides upon, maintains her health, 

Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads 

An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves. 

Its own revolvency upholds the World. 

"Winds from all quarters agitate the air, 

And fit the limpid element for use, 

Else noxious ; oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams, 

All feel the fresh'ning impulse, and are cleansed 

By restless undulation ; e'en the oak 

Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm ; 

He seems indeed indignant, and to feel 

Th' impression of the blast with proud disdain, 

Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm 

He held the thunder ; but the monarch owes 

His firm stability to what he scorns — 

More fix'd below, the more disturb'd above. 

The law, by which all creatures else are bound, 

Binds man, the lord of all. Himself derives 

No mean advantage from a kindred cause, 

From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. 

The sedentary stretch their lazy length 

When Custom bids, but no refreshment find, 

For none they need : the languid cheek, 

Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, 

And wither'd muscle, and the vapid soul, 

Beproach their owner with that love of rest, 

To which he forfeits e'en the rest he loves. 

Not such the alert and active. Measure life 

By its true worth, the comforts it affords, 



WILLIAM COWPER. 131 

And theirs alone seems worthy of the name. 
Good health, and its associate in the most, 
Good temper ; spirits prompt to undertake, 
And not soon spent, though in an arduous task ; 
The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs : 
E'en age itself seems privileged in them, 
"With clear exemption from its own defects. 
A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front 
The veteran shows, and, gracing a gray heard 
"With youthful smiles, descends toward the grave 
Sprightly, and old almost without decay. 



THE WINTER EVENING. 

Hark! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, 

That with its wearisome but needful length 

Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon 

Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright ; — 

He comes, the herald of a noisy world, 

With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks ; 

News from all nations lumb'ring at his back : 

True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind, 

Yet careless what he brings; his one concern 

Is to conduct it to the destined inn ; 

And, having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on. 

He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, 

Cold and yet cheerful, messenger of grief 

Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ; 

To him indifferent whether grief or joy. 

Houses in ashes, or the fall of stocks ; 

Births, deaths, and marriages ; epistles wet 

With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks, 

Fast as the periods from his fluent quill ; 



]32 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, 

Or nymphs responsive ; equally affect 

His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 

But O the important budget ! usher'd in 

"With such heart-shaking music; who can say 

What are its tidings ? Have our troops awaked ? 

Or do tbey still, as if with opium drugg'd, 

Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave ? 

Is India free ? and does she wear her plum'd 

And jewel'd turban with a smile of peace, 

Or do we grind her still ? The grand debate, 

The popular harangue, the tart reply, 

The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, 

And the loud laugh — I long to know them all ; 

I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free, 

And give them voice and utterance once'again. 

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast ; 

Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round ; 

And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn 

Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, 

That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 

So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 

Not such his evening, who with shining face 

Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeezed, 

And bored with elbow points throiigh both his sides, 

Out-scolds the ranting actor on the stage : 

Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, 

And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath 

Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage ; 

Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. 

This folio of four pages, happy work ! 

"Which not e'en critics criticise ; that holds 

Inquisitive attention, while I read, 

Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, 

Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break : 



WILLIAM COWPER. 133 

What is it but a map of busy life, 

Its fluctuations and its vast concerns ? 

Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge 

That tempts ambition. On the summit see 

The seals of office glitter in his eyes ; 

He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels, 

Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, 

And with a dext'rous jerk soon twists him down, 

And wins them but to lose them in his turn. 

Here rills of oily eloquence, in soft 

Meanders lubricate the course they take ; 

The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved 

To engross a moment's notice, and yet begs, 

Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, 

However trivial all that he conceives! 

Sweet Bashfulness ! it claims at least this praise, 

The dearth of information and good sense 

That it foretells us, always comes to pass. 

Cataracts of declamation thunder here ; 

There forests of no meaning spread the page, 

In which all comprehension wanders lost; 

While fields of pleasantry amuse us there 

With merry descants on a nation's woes. 

The rest appears a wilderness of strange 

But gay confusion ; roses for the cheeks, 

And lilies for the brows of faded age ; 

Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald ; 

Heaven, earth, and ocean plunder d of their sweets ; 

Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, 

Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs ; 

Etherial journeys, sub-marine exploits, 

And Katterfelto with bis hair on end 

At his own wonders — wond'ring for his bread. 

Tis pleasant through the loopholes of retreat 

To peep at such a world ; to see the stir 



134 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd ; 

To hear the roar she sends through all her gates 

At a safe distance, where the dying sound 

Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear. 

Thus sitting and surveying, thus at ease, 

The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced 

To some secure and more than mortal height, 

That liberates and exempts me from them all. 

[t turns, submitted to my view ; turns round, 

With all its generations : I behold 

The tumult, and am still. The sound of war 

Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me ; 

Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride 

And avarice, that make man a wolf to man ; 

Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats, 

By which he speaks the language of his heart, 

And sigh, but never tremble at the sound. 

He travels and expatiates ; as the bee 

From flower to flower, so he from land to land ; 

The manners, customs, policy of all, 

Pay contribution to the store he gleans : 

He sucks intelligence in every clime, 

And spreads the honey of his deep research 

At his return — a rich repast for me. 

He travels, and I too. I tread his deck, 

Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes 

Discover countries, with a kindred heart 

Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes ; 

While fancy, like the finger of a clock, 

Buns the great circuit, and is still at home. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 135 



GREAT SUBJECTS. 

To dally much with subjects mean and low, 

Proves that the mind is weak, or makes it so. 

Neglected talents rust into decay, 

And every effort ends in push-pin play. 

The man that means success, should soar above 

A soldier's feather, or a lady's glove ; 

Else, summoning the Muse to such a theme, 

The fruit of all her labour is whipp'd cream. 

As if an eagle flew aloft, and then — 

Stoop'd from its highest pitch to pounce a wren. 

As if the poet, purposing to wed, 

Should carve himself a wife in gingerbread. 

Ages elapsed ere Homer's lamp appear'd, 

And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard. 

To carry Nature lengths unknown before, . 

To give a Milton birth ask'd ages more. 

Thus Genius rose and set at order'd times, 

And shot a day-spring into distant climes, 

Ennobling ev'ry region that he chose ; 

He sank in Greece, in Italy he rose ; 

And, tedious years of Gothic darkness pass'd, 

Emerged all splendour in our isle at last. 

Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main, 

Then show far off their shining plumes again. 



136 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 



THE ROSE. 

The Eose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, 

"Which Mary to Anna convey'd ; 
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, 

And weigh'd down its beautiful head. 

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, 

And it seem'd, to a fanciful view, 
To weep for the buds it had left with regret, 

On the beautiful bush where it grew. 

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was 

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, 

And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 
I snapp'd it — it fell to the ground. 

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part, 

Some act by the delicate mind, 
Eegardless of wringing and breaking a heart, 

Already to sorrow resign'd. 

This beautiful Rose, had I shaken it less, 
Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile ; 

And the tear that is wiped with a little address, 
May be follow'd, perhaps, by a smile. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 13*7 



SLAVERY. 

for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
Some boundless contiguity of shade, 
Where rumour of oppression and deceit, 
Of unsuccessful or successful war, 

Might never reach me more. My ear is pain'd, 
My soul is sick, with every day's report 
Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is fill'd. 
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart ; 
It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax 
That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
He finds his fellows guilty of a skin 
Not colour'd like his own ; and having power 
T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause, 
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey: 
Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 
Make enemies of nations, who had else, 
Like kindred drops, been mingled into one. 
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 
And worse than all, and most to be deplored 
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
With stripes, that mercy, with a bleeding heart, 
Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 
Then what is man ? And what man seeing this, 
And having human feelings, does not blush, 
And hang his head, to think himself a man? 

1 would not have a slave to till my ground, 
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 

And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 



138 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. 
No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
Just estimation, prized above all price, 
I had much rather be myself the slave, 
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 



HUMAN FRAILTY. 

"Weak and irresolute is man, 

The purpose of to-day, 
"Woven with pains into his plan, 

To-morrow rends away. 

The bow well bent, and smart the spring, 

Vice seems already slain ; 
But Passion rudely snaps the string, 

And it revives again. 

Some foe to his upright intent, 

Finds out his weaker part ; 
Virtue engages his assent, 

But Pleasure wins his heart. 

'T is here, the folly of the wise, 
Through all his art we view ; 

And while his tongue the charge denies, 
His conscience owns it true. 



JAMES BEATTIE, LL. D. 139 



f anus §*attie, If. $♦ 

1735—1803. 

James Beattie, the author of " The Minstrel," and 
of several philosophical works, was a native of 
Lawrencekirk, Scotland. His parents were per- 
sons of intelligence and piety; and their son, 
from his early youth, was remarkable for his 
diligence and application to study. In 1768 he 
published "The Minstrel," the longest of his 
poems. He had previously issued an essay, en- 
titled "The Nature and Immutability of Truth," 
which was written to disprove and overthrow 
the theories advanced by Hume and Berkeley, 
built upon the foundation laid centuries before 
by Descartes, and afterward advocated by Locke. 
This work placed him in the front rank of philosophi- 
cal thinkers. He also wrote an " Essay on Memoiy 
and Imagination," a " Treatise on the Evidences of 
Christianity," and the "Elements of Moral Science," 
a work in two volumes. The death of his son 
James, who was a most promising and intellectual 
youth, cast a deep shadow over his remaining 
years. From this time he secluded himself from 
the world until his death, which took place in the 
sixty-eighth year of his age. 



140 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



THE HERMIT. 

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, 
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove ; 

When naught hut the torrent is heard on the hill, 
And naught hut the nightingale's song in the grove : 

'T was thus, hy the cave of the mountain afar, 

While his harp-rung symphonious, a hermit began ; 

No more with himself or with Nature at war, 
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. 

Ah ! why, all abandon'd to darkness and woe, 
Why, lone Philomela, this languishing fall ? 

For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, 
And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall. 

But, if pity inspire thee, renew thy sad lay — 
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn: 

O soothe him whose pleasures, like thine, pass away ! 
Full quickly they pass — but they never return. 

Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, 

The moon, half-extinguish'd, her crescent displays ! 

But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high, 
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 

Boll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 
The path that conducts thee to splendour again : 

But man's faded glory, what change shall renew? 
Ah, fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 




HERMIT. 



- 



JAMES BEATTIE, LL. D. 141 

'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more : 
1 mourn ; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; 

For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, 
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew. 

Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; 

Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save ; 
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn ? 

0! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave? 

'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betray'd, 
That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, 

My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade ; 
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 

O pity, great Father of light ! then I cried, 

Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee I 

Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish all pride : 
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free. 

And darkness and doubt are now flying away ; 

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn; 
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, 

The bright and the balmy- effulgence of morn. 

See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending, 
And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! 

On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, 
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb ! 



142 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



1759—1796. 

The bard of Scotland was born near Ayr, of hum- 
ble, industrious, and pious parents. His opportuni- 
ties of education were quite limited, and the atmos- 
phere in which he was reared, as a child, appears 
to have been uncongenial and repulsive to his as- 
piring and impetuous nature. But he was favour- 
ably received as a poet and won speedly both 
fame and money ; though he died in poverty 
and disgrace. His youth was marked by a 
quick vigour of thought and imagination, while it 
was disfigured by immorality of conduct and lack of 
principle. He lived outwardly a careless, reckless 
life, seemingly regardless of the requirements of 
God or the obligations of religion. But at times, 
when satiated and wearied with worldly enjoy- 
ments, and finally, when his spirit, dark with many 
a crime, was passing into the valley of shadows, 
Robert Burns turned to his forgotten God, and 
sought with strong agony that consolation which in 
the day of health and prosperity he had put far from 
him. Yet he prayed not as a hypocrite ; for the 
heart of man, be it ever so lofty or scorning in the 
time of its rejoicing, is easily subdued and melted 



ROBERT BURNS. 143 

when looking forward with timorous dread and 
fainting anguish to the realities of a future — an 
" undiscovered country." Burns had a mind keen 
and perceptive, an imagination vivid and tender ; 
passions wild, impetuous, and constantly on the 
alert. Added to this was a neglected moral train- 
ing in his early youth, outward situations and 
positions adverse to the natural development of 
purity and sound principle, coupled with an 
uneasy, restless ambition, and a constant, life-long 
current of opposing circumstances. And often, 
under temptation or suffering from a nervous 
and excessive depression of mind, he sought 
relief in the wine-cup, and plunged into the 
lowest debauchery ; and rioted in wild excess 
and insane madness, until life itself was the forfeit. 
Life to him was a strange, bitter dream. But he 
sleeps, and those who may falter in the way of 
right can afford to forgive those who have erred 
and strayed, though ever so widely. Burns died in 
1796, in great poverty, leaving a wife and four 
children, who have since been remembered by his 
"loved Scotland," and placed in pleasant worldly 
circumstances. His biography has been written 
by Lockhart, Currie, and Cunningham. 



144 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BEITISH POETS. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

The short'ning winter-day is near a close; 
The miry beasts retreating frae tbe pleugh, 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose : 

The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes, 
This night his weekly moil is at an end ; 

Collects his spade, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor his course does hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee things, toddlin' stacher thro' 

To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. 

His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, 
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, 

The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary kiaugh cares beguile, 
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. 

Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin, 

A cannie errand to a neibour town. 

Their eldest hope, their Jennie, woman grown, 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 

Comes hame perhaps to show a braw new gown ; 
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 



ROBERT BURNS. 145 

Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet; 

Each tell the uncos that he sees or hears. 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 
Anticipation forward points the view. 

The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel 's the new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 



The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, 

The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride. 

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 
His lyart hafTets wearing thin an' bare ; 

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 
He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And " Let us worship God ! " he says, with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 

Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame, 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 

Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
The tickled ear no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison ha'e they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
How Abram was the friend of God on high; 

Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
With Amlek's ungracious progeny : 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
7 



146 SELECTIONS FBOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 

Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme — 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 

How He, who bore in heaven the second name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head: 
How His first followers and servants sped: 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 

And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's 
command. 

Then kneeling down to heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," 

That thus they all shall meet in future days: 

There ever bask in uncreated rays, 
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear ; 

Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear, 
"While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 
* * * * ■ * * * * * 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request-r- 

That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 

Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 
For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 



ROBERT BURNS. 147 



POVERTY. 

$ $ #:)»:{! sis $ 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, 

"When banes are crazed and bluid is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could make us bless'd ; 
E'en then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest that 's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ba' 

Has aye some cause to smile ; 
And mind still, you '11 find still 

A comfort this, nae sma' ; 
Nae mair then, we '11 care then, 

Nae farther can we fa'. 

"What though, like commoners of air, 
"We wander out, we know not where, 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
"With honest joy our hearts will bound 

To see the coming year : 
On braes when we please, then, 

"We '11 sit and sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till 't, we'll time till 't, 

And sing 't when we ha'e done. 



148 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

It 's no in titles nor in rank, 

It 's no in wealth, like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest : 
It 's no in raakin' muckle mair, 
It's no in books, it's no in lear 1 , 

To make us truly blest : 
Nae treasures or pleasures 

Could make us happy lang ; 
The heart aye's, the part aye, 

That mak's us right or wrang. 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce, 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less 

By pining at our state 
And, even should misfortines come, 
I here wha sit, ha'e met wi' some, 

An 's thankfu' for them yet . 
They gi'e the wit of age to youth, 

They let us ken oursel' ; 
They make us see the naked truth, 

The real guid and ill. 
Though losses and crosses 

Be lessons right severe, 
There 's wit there, ye '11 get there, 

Ye '11 find nae other where. 



ROBERT BURNS. 149 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

Fain would I say, " Forgive my foul offence ! " 
Fain promise never more to disobey ; 

But should my Author health again dispense, 
Again I might desert fair virtue's way, 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 

Then how should I for heavenly mercies pray ? 

Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation rani 

O thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee. 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; 

With that controlling power assist e'en me, 
These headlong, furious passions to confine ; 

For all unfit I feel my powers to be 
To rule their torrent in the allow'd fine ; 
O aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine ! 



150 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



■annul 3S^jg*ra* 



1762-1855. 



The author of " The Pleasures of Memory," " Italy," 
<fec., long lived to enjoy the reputation of being one 
of the most polished poetical writers of the age. 



FROM "THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

Ah ! who can tell the triumphs of the mind, 
By truth illumined, and by taste refined ? 
When age has quench'd the eye and closed the ear, 
Still, nerved for action in her native sphere, 
Oft will she rise — with searching glance pursue 
Some long-loved image vanish'd from her view ; 
Dart through the deep recesses of the past, 
O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast ; 
"With giant grasp fling back the folds of night, 
And snatch the faithless fugitive to light. 
So through the grove the impatient mother flies, 
Each sunless glade, each secret pathway tries ; 
Till the thin leaves the truant boy disclose, 
Long on the wood-moss stretch'd in sweet repose. 

As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower 
Awes us less deeply in its morning hour 
Than when the shades of Time serenely fall. 
On every broken arch and ivied wall ; 



SAMUEL EOGERS. 151 

The tender images we love to trace 

Steal from each year a melancholy grace ! 

And as the sparks of social love expand, 

As the heart opens in a foreign land, 

And with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile, 

The stranger greets each native of his isle ; 

So scenes of life, when present and confess'd, 

Stamp but their bolder features on the breast ; 

Yet not an image, when remotely view'd, 

However trivial, and however rude, 

But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh, 

"With every claim of close affinity ! 

But these pure joys the world can never know; 

In gentler climes their silver currents flow. 

Oft at the silent, shadowy close of day, 

When the hush'd grove has sung its parting lay ; 

When pensive Twilight, in her dusky car, 

Comes slowly on to meet the evening star ; 

Above, below, aerial murmurs swell, 

From hanging wood, brown heath, and bushy dell ! 

A thousand nameless rills, that shun the light, 

Stealing soft music on the ear of night. 

So oft the finer movements of the soul, 

That shun the sphere of Pleasure's gay control, 

In the still shades of calm Seclusion rise, 

And breathe their sweet, seraphic harmonies 1 

Once, and domestic annals tell the time, 
Preserved in Cumbria's rude, romantic clime, 
When Nature smiled, and o'er the landscape threw 
Her richest fragrance and her brightest hue, 
A blithe and blooming forester explored 
Those loftier scenes Salvator's soul adored ; 
The rocky pass half-hung with shaggy wood, 
And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood ; 



152 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Nor shunn'd the track unknown to human tread, 
That downward to the night of caverns led, 
Some ancient cataract's deserted bed. 

High on exulting wing the heath-cock rose, 
And blew his shrill blast o'er perennial snows; 
Ere the rapt youth, recoiling from the roar, 
Gazed on the tumbling tide of dread Lodore ; 
And through the rifted cliffs that scaled the sky, 
Derwent's clear mirror charmed his dazzled eye. 
Each osier isle, inverted on the wave, 
Through morn's gray mist its melting colours gave ; 
And o'er the cygnet's haunt, the mantling grove 
Its emerald arch with wild luxuriance wove. 

Light as the breeze that brush'd the orient dew, 
From rook to rock the young adventurer flew ; 
And day's last sunshine slept along the shore, 
When lo ! a path the smile of welcome wore. 
Embow'ring shrubs with verdure veiled the sky, 
And on the musk-rose shed a deeper dye ; 
Save when a bright and momentary gleam 
Glanced from the white foam of some shelter'd stream. 

O'er the still lake the bell of evening toll'd, 

And on the moor the shepherd penn'd his fold, 

And on the green hill-side the meteor played ; 

When hark ! a voice sung sweetly through the shade. 

It ceased — yet still in Florio's fancy rung, 

Still on each note his captive spirit hung ; 

Till o'er the mead, a cool, sequester'd grot, 

From its rich roof a sparry lustre shot. 

A crystal water cross'd the pebbled floor, 

And on the front these simple lines it bore : — 



SAMUEL ROGEES. 153 

Hence away, nor dare intrude ! 

In this secret, shadowy cell, 

Musing Memory loves to dwell 
"With her sister Solitude. 

Far from the world she flies, 

To taste that peace the world denies. 

Entranced she sits from youth to age, 

Reviewing Life's eventful page ; 

And noting, ere they fade away, 

The little lines of yesterday. 



THE WISH. 



Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
A willowy brook that turns a mill, 

"With many a fall shall linger near. 

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch, 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 

Oft shall the- pilgrim lift the latch, 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivied porch shall spring 

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 

And Lucy at her wheel shall sing, 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village church among the trees, 

Where first our marriage vows were given, 

"With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 
>7* 



154 SELECTIONS FKOM THE BEITISH POETS. 



foatttta §aillw* 



1765—1851. 



This lady, celebrated as a dramatic writer, was 
born in Scotland, but resided for many years near 
London. She wrote many short poems of great 
beauty. 



THE KITTEN. 

"Wanton droll, whose harmless play 
Bewiles the rustic's closing day, 
"When drawn the evening fire about, 
Sits aged crone, and thoughtless lout, 
And child, upon his three-foot stool, 
"Waiting till his supper cool ; 
And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose, 
As bright the blazing faggot glows, 
Who, bending to the friendly light, 
Plies her task with busy sleight ; 
Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, 
Thus circled round with merry faces. 
Backward coiled, and crouching low, 
With glaring eye-balls watch thy foe. 
The housewife's spindle whirling round, 
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 155 

Its shadow throws, by urchin sly 

Held out, to lure thy roving eye ; 

Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring 

Upon the futile, faithless thing. 

Now, wheeling round with bootless skill, 

Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, 

As oft beyond thy curving side 

Its jetty tip is seen to glide, 

Till from thy centre, starting fair, 

Thou sidelong rear'st with back in air, 

Erected stiff, and gate awry, 

Like madam in her tantrums high ; 

Though ne'er a madam of them all, 

"Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall, 

More varied trick and whim displays 

To catch th' admiring stranger's gaze. 

The featest tumbler, stage-bedight, 
To thee is but a clumsy wight, 
Whose every limb and sinew strains 
To do what costs thee little pains: 
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd 
Kequites him oft with plaudits loud. 
But, stopped the while thy wanton play, 
Applauses, too, thy feats repay ; 
For then beneath some urchin's hand, 
With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand, 
"While many a stroke of fondness glides 
Along thy back and tabby sides ; 
Dilated, swells thy glossy fur, 
And loudly sings thy busy purr, 
As, timing well the equal sound, 
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, 
And all their harmless claws disclose, 
Like prickles of an early rose : 



156 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

While softly from thy whisker'd cheek 
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. 
But not alone by cottage fire, 
Do rustics rude thy feats admire ; 
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore 
The widest range of human lore, 
Or with unfettered fancy fly 
Through airy heights of poesy, 
Pausing, smiles with altered air, 
To see thee climb his elbow chair, 
Or, struggling on the mat below, 
Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe. 
The widowed dame, or lonely maid, 
Who, in the still but cheerless shade 
Of home unsocial, spends her age, 
And rarely turns a letter'd page, 
Upon her hearth, for thee, lets fall 
The rounded cork, or paper-ball, 
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch 
The ends of ravelled skein to catch ; 
'But lets thee have thy wayward will, 
Perplexing oft her sober skill. 
Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, 
In lonely tower, or prison pent, 
Eeviews the coil of former days, 
And loathes the world and all its ways — 
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam, 
Doth rouse him from his moody dream, 
Feels, as thou gamboll'st round his seat, 
His heart with pride less fiercely beat, 
And smiles, a link in thee to find 
That joins him still to living kind. 
Whence hast thou, then, thou witless Puss, 
The magic power to charm us thus ? 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 157 

Is it that in thy glaring eye 

And rapid movements we descry, 

"While we at ease, secure from ill, 

The chimney-corner snugly fill, 

A lion, darting on the prey, 

A tiger, at his ruthless play? 

Or is it that in thee we trace, 

"With all thy varied wanton grace, 

An emblem viewed with kindred eye, 

Of tricksy, restless infancy ? 

Ah ! many a lightly sportive child, 

Who hath like thee our wits beguiled, 

To dull and sober manhood grown, 

"With strange recoil our hearts disown. 

E'en so, poor Kit, must thou endure, 

When thou becom'st a cat demure, 

Full many a cuff and angry word, 

Chid roughly from the tempting board ; 

And yet, for that thou hast, I ween, 

So oft our favour'd playmate been, 

Soft be the change which thou shalt prove. 

"When time hath spoiled thee of our love, 

Still be thou deemed, by housewife fat, 

A comely, careful, mousing cat, 

Whose dish is, for the " public good," 

Replenish'd oft with savoury food. 

Nor, when thy span of fife is past, 

Be thou to pond or dunghill cast ; 

But, gently borne on good man's spade, 

Beneath the decent sod be laid ; 

And children show, with glistening eyes, 

The place where poor old Pussy lies. 



158 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



SONG. 

The gowan glitters on the sward, 

The lavrock's in the sky; 
And Oolley in my plaid keeps ward, 

And time is passing by. 
O, no ! sad and slow ! 

I hear no welcome sound, 
In the shadow of our trysting bush, 

It wears so slowly round. 

My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west, 

My lambs are bleating near ; 
But still the sound that I lo'e best, 

Alack! I canna hear. 
O, no ! sad and slow, 

The shadow lingers still, 
And like a lanely ghaist I stand, 

And croon upon the hill. 

I hear below the water roar, 

The mill wi' clacking din ; 
And Suckey scolding frae her door 

To bring the bairnies in. 
O, no ! sad and slow ! 

These are nae sounds for me ; 
The shadow of our trysting bush, 

It creeps sae drearily. 

I coft yestreen, frae Chapman Tarn, 

A snood of bonny blue ; 
And promised, when our trysting came, 

To tie it round her brow. 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 159 

O, no ! sad and slow ! 

The time it winna pass ; 
The shadow of that weary thorn 

Is tether'd on the grass. 

My book o' grace I '11 try to read, 

Though conn'd wi' little skill ; 
When Oolley barks I '11 raise my head. 

And find her on the hill. 
O, no ! sad and slow ! 

The time will ne'er be gane ; 
The shadow of that trysting bush 

Is fixed, like ony stane. 



160 SELECTION'S FEOM THE BEITISH POETS. 



illtam Hartotoflrtjf* 



1770— 1850 

This great poet was born in 1770, was educated at 
Cambridge, and lived for many years in seclu- 
sion in the Lake country amid the mountains of 
Westmoreland. He was a man of great amiability 
of character, and of stern moral principles. His 
longest work is the "Excursion," a very unequal 
poem, but replete with noble sentiments. Words- 
worth, Southey, and Coleridge, at one time, all 
lived in the Lake country together ; and hence the 
term "Lake Poets," first applied in ridicule by 
some short-brained reviewer, but now a title of 
fame. 



ODE. 

INTIMATIONS OP IMMORTALITY, FEOM " RECOLLECTIONS OP EARLY CHILDHOOD." 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight, 

To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light ; 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 161 

The glory and the freshness of a dream, 
It is not now as it hath been of yore ; 

Turn wheresoe'er I may, 

By night or day, 
The things "which I have seen, I now can see no more ! 

The rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the rose ; 
The moon doth with delight 

Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 

But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth. 

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make, — I see 

The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
My heart is at your festival, 
My head hath its coronal, 
The fulness of your bliss I feel — I feel it all. 
0, evil day ! if I Avere sullen, 

While the earth herself is adorning, 

This sweet May morning, 
And the children are pulling 

On eveiy side, 

In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm. 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 

But there 's a tree, of many a one, 

A single field which I have look'd upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is gone ; 



162 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

The pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat, 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
"Where is it now, the glory and dream ? 

Our hirth is hut a sleep and a forgetting ; 

The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting, 

And cometh from afar. 
Not in entire forgetfulness, 
And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come, 
From God who is our home ; 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy, 

Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
Upon the growing boy, 

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
He sees it in his joy. 

The youth, who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 

And by the vision splendid, 

Is on his way attended. 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 



The thought of our past years in me doth breed 

Perpetual benedictions ; not indeed 

For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 

Delight and liberty, the simple creed 

Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 

"With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast ; — 

Not for these I raise 

The songs of thanks and praise, 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 163 

But for those obstinate questionings 

Of sense and outward things, 

Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
Blank misgivings of a creature, 

Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts, before which our mortal nature 

Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised ! 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 
"Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us — cherish — and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 

Of the eternal silence ; truths that wake 
To perish never ; 
"Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 

Nor man, nor boy, 

"Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 

Can utterly abolish or destroy : 
Hence, in a season of calm Aveather, 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea, 

"Which brought us hither — 

Can in a moment travel thither, — 
And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

Then sing, ye birds ! sing, sing a joyous song ! 

And let the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound ! 
"We in thought will join your throng. 

Ye that pipe and ye that play, 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May ! 



164 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

"What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now forever taken from my sight; 
Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower, — 
"We will grieve not ; rather find 
Strength in what remains behind, 
In the primal sympathy, 
Which, having been, must ever be, 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering, 
In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 

Think not of any severing of your loves! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the brooks which down their channels fret, 
E'en more than when I tripped, lightly as they ; 
The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet ; — 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun 

Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 

Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live ! 

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears! 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 165 



A SIMILE. 

Within the soul a faculty abides, 
That with interpositions, which would hide 
And darken, so can deal that they become 
Contingencies of pomp, and serve to exalt 
Her native brightness. As the ample moon, 
In the deep stillness of a summer eve, 
Eising behind a thick and lofty grove, 
Burns like an unconsuming fire of light 
In the green trees ; and, kindling on all sides 
Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil 
Into a substance glorious as her own, 
Tea, with her own incorporated, by power 
Capacious and serene ; — like power abides 
In man's celestial spirit ; Virtue thus 
Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds 
A calm, a beautiful, a silent fire, 
From the encumbrances of mortal life, 
From error, disappointment, nay, from guilt ; 
And sometimes, so relenting Justice will, 
From palpable oppressions of despair. 



CHANGE. 



And what are things eternal ? Powers depart, 

^: ^ :t; :(: H= * * * * 

Possessions vanish, and opinions change, 
And passions hold a fluctuating seat ; 
But by the storms of circumstance unshaken, 
And subject neither to eclipse nor wane, 



166 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Duty exists. Immutably survive, 

For our support, the measures and the forms 

Which an abstract intelligence supplies, 

Whose kingdom is, where time and space are not ; 

Of other converse, which mind, soul, and heart, 

Do with united urgency require, 

What more that may not perish ? Thou dread Source, 

Prime, self-existing Cause, the end of all 

That in the scale of being fill their place, 

Above our human region, or below, 

Set and sustain'd ; Thou, who did'st wrap the cloud 

Of infancy around us, that Thyself 

Therein with our simplicity awhile 

Might'st hold on earth communion undisturb'd ; 

Who, from the anarchy of dreaming sleep, 

Or from its death-like void, with punctual care, 

And touch as gentle as the morning light, 

Restor'st us daily to the powers of sense, 

And reason's steadfast rule ; Thou, Thou alone, 

Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits 

Which thou includest, as the sea her waves ; 

For adoration thou endur'st ; endure 

For consciousness the motions of Thy will ; 

For apprehension, those transcendent truths 

Of the pure Intellect, that stand as laws 

(Submission constituting strength and power) 

Even to Thy being's infinite majesty ! 

This universe shall pass away— a work 

Glorious, because the shadow of Thy might ; 

A step, a link, for intercourse with thee. 

Ah ! if the time must come, in which my feet 

No more shall stray where meditation leads, 

By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild, 

Loved haunts like these ; the unimprisoned mind 

May yet have scope to range among her own, 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 1Q1 

Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. 

If the dear faculty of sight should fail, 

Still it may be allow'd me to remember 

What visionary powers of eye and soul 

In youth were mine ; when stationed on the top 

Of some huge hill, expectant I beheld 

The sun rise up, from distant climes return'd, 

Darkness to chase, and sleep, and bring the day, 

His bounteous gift ! or saw him toward the deep 

Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds 

Attended ; then my spirit was entranced 

With joy exalted to beatitude; 

The measure of my soul was fill'd with bliss, 

And holiest love ; as earth, sea, air, with light, 

With pomp, with glory, with magnificence ! 

Fkom " The Excursion," Book Foxjeth. 



LONDON B.EFORE SUNRISE. 

Earth hath not anything to show more fair, 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty. 
JThis city now doth like a garment wear 
The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky — 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill ; 
Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep ! 
The river glideth at its own sweet will. 

Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart ia lying still! 



16S SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



THE POWER OF SOUND AT NIGHT. 

Has not the soul, the being of your life, 

Eeceived a shock of awful consciousness, 

In some calm season, when these lofty rocks, 

At night's approach, bring down the unclouded sky, 

To rest upon their circumambient walls : 

A temple framing of dimensions vast, 

And yet not too enormous for the sound 

Of human anthems, — choral song, or burst 

Sublime of instrumental harmony, 

To glorify the Eternal? What if these 

Did never break the stillness that prevails 

Here ; if the solemn nightingale be mute, 

And the soft woodlark here did never chant 

Her vespers. Nature fails not to provide 

Impulse and utterance. The whispering air 

Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights, 

And blind recesses of the cavern'd rocks : 

The little rills and waters numberless, 

Inaudible by daylighh, blend their notes 

With the loud streams ; and often at the hour 

When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard 

Within the circuit of this fabric huge, 

One voice — one solitary raven, flying 

Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome, 

Unseen, perchance above the power of sight, — 

An iron knell! with echoes from afar, 

Faint, and still fainter. — " Excursion." 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 169 



THE DAFFODILS. 

I wander'd lonely as a cloud, 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host of golden daffodils, 
Beside the lake, heneath the trees, 
Flutt'ring and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine, 
And twinkle on the milky way, 

They stretch'd, in never-ending line, 
Along the margin of a bay ; 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee; 

A poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company ; 

I gazed, and gazed, but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought. 

For oft, while on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 

They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude ; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills, 

And dances with the daffodils. 



170 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



xr WLzlttx JSoii 

1771—1832. 



THE TOMB OF MICHAEL SCOTT. 

By a steel-clinch'd postern door 

They entered now the chancel tall ; 
The darken' d roof rose high aloof 

On pillars lofty, light, and small ; 
The key-stone that lock'd each rihbed aisle 
"Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre feuille ; 
The corbels were carved grotesque and grim ; 
And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so trim, 
Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands had wound. 

Full many a scutcheon and banner riven, 
Shook to the cold night- wind of heaven, 

Around the screened altars pale ; 
And there the dying lamps did burn, 
Before thy low and lonely urn, 
O gallant chief of Otterburne ! 

And thine, dark knight of Liddesdale ! 
O fading honours of the dead ! 
O high ambition lowly laid ! 

The moon on the east oriel shone, 
Through slender shafts of shapely, stone, 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 1*71 

By foliage tracery combined ; 
Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand, 
'Twist poplars straight the ozier wand, 

In many a freakish knot had twined ; 

Then framed a spell when the work was done, 

And changed the willow wreaths to stone. 

The silver light, so pale and faint, 
Showed many a prophet and many a saint, 
"Whose image on the glass was dyed ; 

Full in the midst his cross of red 

Triumphant Michael brandished, 
And trampled the apostate pride. 
The moonbeam kiss'd the holy pane, 
And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. 

They sate them down on a marble stone, 

A Scottish monarch slept below ; 
Thus spoke the monk, in solemn tone : — 

" I was not always a man of woe ; 
For Paynim countries I have trod, 
And fought beneath the cross of God ; 
Now strange to mine eyes thine arms appear, 
And their iron clang sounds strange to mine ear. 

" In these fair climes, it was my lot 
To meet the wondrous Michael Scott ; 
A wizard of such dreaded fame, 

That when, in Salamanca's cave, 

Him listed his magic wand to wave, 
The bells would ring in Notre Dame ! 
Some of his skill he taught to me ; 
And, warrior, I could say to thee 
The words that cleft Eildon hills in three. 



172 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone; 
But to speak them were a deadly sin, 
And for having but thought them my heart within 

A treble penance must be done. 

" "When Michael lay on his dying bed 

His conscience was awakened ; 

He bethought him of his sinful deed, 

And he gave me a sign to come with speed. 

I was in Spain when the morning rose, 

But I stood by his bed ere evening close. 

The words may not again be said 

That he spoke to me on death-bed laid ; 

They would rend this abbey's massy nave, 

And pile it in heaps above his grave. 

" I swore to bury his mighty Book, 

That never mortal might therein look ; 

And never to tell where it was hid, 

Save at his chief of Branksome's need ; 

And when that need was past and o'er, 

Again the volume to restore. 

I buried him on St. Michael's night 

"When the bell toll'd one, and the moon was bright ; 

And I dug his chamber among the dead, 

"When the floor of the chancel was stained red, 

That his patron's cross might o'er him wave, 

And scare the fiends from the wizard's grave. 

" It was a night of woe and dread 
When Michael in the .tomb I laid ! 
Strange sounds around the chancel past, 
The banners waved without a blast ! — " 
Still spoke the monk when the bell toll'd one ! 
I tell you that a braver man 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 1 73 

Than William of Deloraine, good at need, 
Against a foe ne'er spurred a steed ; 
Yet somewhat was he chill'd with dread, 
And his hair did hristle upon his head. 

" Lo, warrior ! now the cross of red 

Points to the grave of the mighty dead ! 

Within it burns a wondrous light, 

To chase the spirits that love the night ; 

That lamp shall burn unquenchably 

Until the eternal doom shall be ! " 

Slow moved the monk to the broad flag-stone, 

Which the bloody cross was traced upon ; 

He pointed to a secret nook ; 

An iron bar the warrior took ; 

And the monk made a sign with his wither'd hand, 

The grave's huge portal to expand. 

With beating heart to the task he went, 

His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent ; 

With bar of iron heaved amain, 

Till the toil-drops fell from his brow like rain. 

It was by dint of passing strength 

That he moved the massy stone at length. 

I would you had been there to see 

How the light broke forth so gloriously — 

Streamed upward to the chancel roof, 

And through the galleries ran aloof I 

No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright : 

It shone like the heaven's own blessed light ; 

And issuing from the tomb, 
Show'd the monk's cowl, and visage pale, 
Danced on the dark-brow'd warrior's mail, 

And kiss'd his waving plume. 

Before their eyes the wizard lay, 
As if he had not been dead a day ! 



174 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

His hoary beard in silver roll'd, 
He seem'd some seventy winters old ; 
A palmer's amice wrapp'd him round, 
"With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, 

Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea. 
His left hand held his Book of Might, 
A silver cross was in his right ; 

The lamp was placed beside his knee. 
High and majestic was his look, 
At which the fellest fiends had shook ; 
And all unruffled was his face : 
They trusted his soul had gotten grace. 

Oft had "William of Deloraine 

Eode through the battle's bloody plain, 

And trampled down the warriors slain, 

And neither known remorse or awe ; 
Yet now remorse and awe he own'd ; 
His breath came thick, his head swam round, 

"When this strange scene of death he saw. 
Bewilder'd and unnerved he stood, 
And the priest pray'd fervently and loud ; 
"With eyes averted, prayed he ; 
He might not endure the sight to see, 
Of the man he had loved so brotherly. 

And when the priest his death-prayer had pray'd, 

Thus unto Deloraine he said : — 

" Now speed thee what thou hast to do, 

Or, warrior, we may dearly rue ; 

For those thou may'st not look upon 

Are gathering fast round the yawning-stone!" 

Then Deloraine, in terror, took 

From the cold hand the mighty Book, 

"With iron clasp, and with iron bound ; 

He thought, as be took it, the dead man frown'd ; 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 175 

But the glare of the sepulchral light, 
Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight. 

"When the huge stone sank o'er the tomb, 

The night return'd in double gloom ; 

For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few ; 

And, as the knight and the priest withdrew, 

With wavering steps and dizzy brain, 

They hardly might the postern gain. 

'T is said, as through the aisles they pass'd, 

They heard strange noises in the blast; 

And through the cloister-galleries small, 

Which at mid-height thread the chancel wall, 

Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran, 

And voices unlike the voice of man; 

As if the fiends kept holiday 

Because these spells were brought to day. 



A DIRGE 



He is gone on the mountain, 

He is lost to the forest, 
Like a summer-dried fountain, 

When our need was the sorest. 
The font, reappearing, 

From the rain-drops shall borrow; 
But to us comes no cheering, 

To Duncan no morrow! 

The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoary, 

But the voice of the weeper 
Wails manhood in glory ; 



176 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BEITISH POETS. 

The autumn winds rushing, 
Waft the leaves that are searest ; 

But our flower was in flushing 
When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi, 

Sage counsel in cumber, 
Red hand in the foray, 

How sound is thy "slumber! 
Like the dew on the mountain, 

Like the foam on the river, 
Like the bubble on the fountain, 

Thou art gone, and forever ! 



BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE. 

There is no breeze upon the fern, 

No ripple on the lake ; 
Upon the eyrie nods the erne, 

The deer has sought the brake ; 
The small birds will not sing aloud, 

The springing trout lies still, 
So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud, 
That swathes, as with a purple shroud, 

Benledi's distant hill. 
Is it the thunder's solemn sound 

That mutters deep and dread, 
Or echoes from the groaning ground 

The warrior's measured tread ? 
Is it the lightning's quivering glance 

That on the thicket streams, 
Or do they flash on spear and lance 

The sun's retiring beams? 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. HI 

— I see the dagger crest of Mar, 
I see the Moray's silver star 
Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, 
That up the lake comes winding far ! 

Their light-arm'd archers, far and near, 

Surveyed the tangled ground ; 
Their centre ranks, with pikes and spears, 

A twilight forest frowned ; 
Their barbed horsemen, in the rear, 

The stern battalia crown'd. 
No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang, 

Still were the pipe and drum ; 
Save heavy tread, and armour's clang, 

The sullen march was dumb ; 
There breathed no wind their crests to shake, 

Or wave their flags abroad ; 
Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake, 

That shadow'd o'er their road. 
Their vanward scouts no tidings bring, 

Can rouse no lurking foe ; 
Nor spy a trace of living thing, 

Save where they stirr'd the roe. 
The host moves like a deep sea wave, 
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, 

High-swelling, dark, and slow. 
The lake is pass'd, and now they gain 
A narrow and a broken plain, 
Before the Trosach's rugged jaws ; 
And here, the horse and spearmen pause, 
While, to explore the dangerous glen, 
Dive through the pass the archer-men. 

At once there rose so wild a yell, 
Within that dark and narrow dell, 
b* 



178 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

As all the fiends from heaven that fell, 
Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell ! 
Forth from the pass, in tumult driven, 
Like chaff before the wind of heaven, 

The archery appear : 
For life ! for life ! their flight they ply — 
And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry, 
And plaids and bonnets waving high, 
And broadswords flashing to the sky, 

Are maddening in their rear. 
Onward they drive, in dreadful race, 

Pursuers and pursued ; 
Before that tide of flight and chase, 
How shall it keep its rooted place, 

The spearmen's twilight wood ? 
" Down ! down ! " cried Mar, " your lances down ' 

Bear back, both friend and foe ! " 
Like reeds before the tempest's frown, 
That serried grove of lances brown 

At once lay levell'd low! 
And closely shouldering side by side, 
The bristling ranks the onset bide. 

Feom " Lady of the Lake." 



JAMES MONTGOMERY. 179 



1771—1854. 

" The Moravian Poet " was a native of North 
Britain. During many years of .his life lie suffered 
severely from imprisonment and poverty, and as a 
poet he was supposed to be annihilated by the 
criticism ,pf Johnson; but he outlived both his 
political and literary persecutors. Amid all his 
trials his virtue and piety remained unshaken. 
His old age was spent in quiet retirement, and he 
died beloved and revered by all. His poems have 
been published in one volume. 



THE GRAVE. 



There is a calm for those who weep, 
A rest for weary pilgrims found : 
They softly lie, and sweetly sleep, 
Low in the ground ! 

The storm that wrecks the winter sky 
No more disturbs their deep repose 
Than summer evening's latest sigh 
That shuts the rose. 



180 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

I long to lay this painful head, 
And aching heart, beneath the soil ; 
To slumber in that dreamless bed 
From all my toil. 

Art thou a wand'rer ? hast thou seen 
O'erwhelming tempests drown thy bark ? 
A shipwreek'd sufferer hast thou been — 
Misfortune's mark? 

Though long of winds and waves the sport, 
Condemn'd in wretchedness to roam, 
Live ! thou shalt reach a shelt'ring port, 
A quiet home ! 

There is a calm for those who weep, 
A rest for weary pilgrims found : 
And while the mould'ring ashes sleep 
Low in the ground : — 

The soul, of origin divine, 
God's glorious image, freed from clay, 
In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine 
A star of day ! 

The sttn is but a spake of fire — 
A transient meteor in the sky ; 
The soul, immortal as its Sire, 
Shall never die. 



JAMES MONTGOMERY. 181 



LIFE. 

Life is the transmigration of a soul 
Through various bodies, various states of being ; 
New manners, passions, new pursuits in each ; 
In nothing, save in consciousness, the same. 
Infancy, adolescence, manhood, age, 
Are alway moving onward, alway losing 
Themselves in one another, lost at length 
Like undulations on the strand of death. 

The Child ! we know no more of happy childhood 

Than happy childhood knows of wretched eld ; 

And all our dreams of its felicity 

Are incoherent as its own crude visions : 

We but begin to live from that fine point 

Which memory dwells on, with the morning star ; 

The earliest note we heard the cuckoo sing, 

Or the first daisy that we ever plucked ; 

When thoughts themselves were stars, and birds, and 

flowers, 
Pure brilliance, simplest music, wild perfume. 

Then the gray Elder ! — leaning on his staff, 

And bound beneath a weight of years that steal 

Upon him with the secrecy of sleep, 

(No snow falls lighter than the snow of age, — 

None with such subtlety benumbs the frame,) 

Till he forgets sensation, and lies down 

Dead in the lap of his primeval mother. 

She throws a shroud of turf and flowers around him, 

Then calls the worms, and bids them do their office! 

Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he ? 



182 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BKITISH POETS. 



NIGHT. 

Night is the time for rest ; 

How sweet, when labours close, 
To gather round an aching breast 

The curtain of repose, 
Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head 
Upon our own delightful bed. 

Night is the time for dreams ; 

The gay romance of life, 
When truth that is, and truth that seems, 

Blend in fantastic strife ; 
Ah ! visions less beguiling far 
Than waking dreams by daylight are. 

Night is the time for toil ; 

To plough the classic field, 
Intent to find the buried spoil 

Its wealthy furrows yield ; 
Till all is ours that sages taught, 
That poets sang, or heroes wrought. 

Night is the time to weep ; 

To wet with unseen tears 
Those graves of memory, where sleep 

The joys of other years — 
Hopes that were angels in their birth, 
But perish'd young like things on earth. 

Night is the time to watch 

On ocean's dark expanse ; 
Or hail the Pleiades, or catch 

The full moon's earliest glance, 



JAMES MONTGOMERY. 183 

That brings into the home-sick mind 
All we have loved and left behind. 

Night is the time for care ; 

Brooding on hours misspent, 
To see the spectre of despair 

Come to our lonely tent ; 

I^;e Brutus, 'mid his slumbering host, 

Startled by Caesar's stalwart ghost. 

» 
Night is the time to muse ; 

Then from the eye the soul 
Takes flight, and with expanding views 

Beyond the starry pole 
Descries athwart th' abyss of night, 
The dawn of uncreated light. 

Night is the time to pray ; 

Our Saviour oft withdrew 
To desert mountains far away; 

So will his followers do : — 
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, 
And hold communion there with God. 

Night is the time for death ; 

When all around is peace, 
Calmly to yield the weary breath, 

From sin and suffering cease, 
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign 
To parting friends — such death be mine ! 



184 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



FROM "THE WORLD BEFORE THE FLOOD." 

Deep was that valley, girt with rock and wood ; 
In rural groups the scattered hamlets stood : 
Tents, arbours, cottages, adorned the scene ; 
Gardens and fields, and shepherd-walks bjtween ; 
Through all, a streamlet from its mountain-source, 
Seen but by stealth, pursued its willowy course. 

"When first the mingling sons of God and man 

The demon-sacrifice of war began, 

Self-exiled, here, the family of Setb 

Eenounced a world of violence and death ; 

Faithful alone amid the faithless found, 

And innocent, while murder cursed the ground. 

Here, in retirement from profane mankind, 

They worshipp'd God with purity of mind ; 

Fed their small flocks, and till'd their narrow soil, 

Like parent Adam, with submissive toil — 

Adam, whose eyes their pious hands had closed, 

Whose bones beneath their quiet turf reposed. 

No glen like this, unstain'd with human blood, 

Could youthful Nature boast before the flood ; 

Far less shall earth, now hastening to decay, 

A scene of sweeter loneliness display, 

Where naught was heard but sounds of peace and love, 

Nor seen but woods around, and heaven above. 

Yet not in cold and unconcern'd content 

Their years in that delicious range were spent ; 

Oft from their haunts the fervent patriarchs broke, 

In strong affection to their kindred spoke ; 

With tears and prayers reproved their growing crimes, 

Or told th' impending judgments of the times. 



JAMES MONTGOMERY 185 

In vain ! the world despis'd the warning word, 
With scorn "belied it, or with mockery heard, 
Forbade the zealous monitors to roam, 
And stoned or chased them to their forest-home. 
There, from the depth of solitude, their sighs 
Pleaded with Heaven in ceaseless sacrifice ; 
And long did righteous Heaven the guilty spare, 
Won by the holy violence of prayer. 



ENOCH'S ACCOUNT OF THE DEATH OF ADAM. 

The sun went down amid an angry glare 

Of flushing clouds, that crimson'd all the air ; 

The winds broke loose, the forest-boughs were torn, 

And dark aloof the eddying foliage borne ; 

Cattle to shelter scudded in affright, 

The florid evening vanish'd into night; 

Then burst the hurricane upon the vale 

In peals of thunder, and thick-volley'd hail ; 

Prone rushing rain with torrents whelm'd the land, 

Our cot amid a river seem'd to stand ; 

Around its base the foaming-crested streams 

Flash'd through the darkness to the lightnings gleams ; 

With monstrous throes an earthquake heaved the ground, 

The rocks were rent, the mountains trembled round ; 

Never since Nature into being came, 

Had such mysterious motion shook her frame ; 

We thought, engulf 'd in floods, or wrapp'd in fire, 

The world itself would perish with our sire. 

Amid this war of elements, within 
More dreadful grew the sacrifice of sin, 



186 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

"Whose victim on his bed of torture lay, 

Breathing the slow remains of life away. 

Ere while victorious Faith sublimer rose 

Beneath the pressure of collected woes. 

But now his spirit waver'd, went and came, 

Like the loose vapour of departing flame, 

Till, at the point when comfort seem'd to die, 

Forever, in his fixed, unclosing eye, 

Bright through the smouldering ashes of the man, 

The saint brake forth, and Adam thus began : — 

" O ye that shudder at this awful strife, 
This wrestling agony of death and life, 
Think not that He, on whom my soul is cast, 
"Will leave me thus forsaken to the last. 
Nature's infirmity alone you see ; 
My chains are breaking, I shall soon be free ! 
Though firm in God, the spirit holds her trust ; 
The flesh is frail, and trembles into dust. 
Horror and anguish seize me ; 'tis the hour 
Of darkness, and I mourn beneath its power ; 
The tempter plies me with his direst art, 
I feel the serpent coiling round my heart ; 
He stirs the wound he once inflicted there, 
Instils the deadening poison of despair ; 
Belies the truth of God's delaying grace, 
And bids me curse my Maker to his face. 
I will not curse Him, though his grace delay ; 
— I will not cease to trust Him, though He slay ; 
Full on his promised mercy I rely, 
For God hath spoken — God who cannot lie. 
— Thou, of my faith the Author and the end ! 
Mine early, late, and everlasting Friend ! 
The joy that once Thy presence gave, restore 
Ere I am summoned hence, and seen no more ! 



JAMES MONTGOMERY. 187 

Down to the dust returns this earthly frame, 
Keceive my spirit, Lord ! from whom it came ! 
Rebuke the tempter, show Thy power to save ; 
O ! let Thy glory light me to the grave ! 
That these, who witness my departing breath, 
May learn to triumph in the grasp of death." 

He closed his eyelids with a tranquil smile, 
And seemed to rest in silent prayer awhile ; 
Around his couch with filial awe we kneeled, 
"When suddenly, a light from heaven revealed 
A spirit, that stood within the unopen'd door ; 
The sword of God in his right hand he bore ; 
His countenance was lightning, and his vest 
Like snow at sunrise, on the mountain's crest; 
Yet so benignly beautiful his form, 
His presence stilled the fury of the storm. 
At once the winds retire, the waters cease, 
His look was love, his salutation, "Peace !" 

%%%:,*%:%% 

Adam look'd up, his visage changed its hue ; 
Transformed into an angel's at the view : 
"I come !" he cried, with faith's full triumph fired, 
And in a sigh of ecstasy expired. 

The light was vanish'd, and the vision fled ; 

"We stood alone, the living with the dead ; 

The ruddy embers, glimm'ring round the room, 

Displayed the corse amid the solemn gloom ; 

But o'er the scene a holy calm reposed — 

The gate of Heaven had opened there, and closed. 

The World before the Flood. 



188 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



1772—1834. 

This great poet was born in Devonshire. His 
father, whom he had the misfortune to lose while 
in early youth, was a minister of the Established 
Church. The poet was the youngest of thirteen 
children. At the age of fifteen he selected the 
trade of shoemaker as his occupation. Failing in 
this, he commenced the study of medicine, and ob- 
tained an entrance into Cambridge University in 
1791, but soon left in despair or disgust. His habits 
of study were ill suited to the regular routine of the 
schools ; he indulged much in speculative reading 
and thought, to the neglect of the tasks imposed upon 
him as a pupil. Upon leaving the University he 
went to London, and enlisted in the army. After 
his discharge he married a sister of the wife of 
Southey. His religious opinions in youth were 
unsettled, but in the prime of his manhood he 
became a firm believer in orthodox Christianity. 
His writings on theology have affected the English 
mind more profoundly, perhaps, than those of any 
man of the present age. He wrote " Christab el," 
"The Ancient Mariner," "Fears in Solitude," 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 189 

" Ode to the Departing Year," and a tragedy on 
"Remorse," previous to his twenty-sixth year. 
In poetic diction and in melody of verse, he is sur- 
passed, it is thought, by no English writer, except 
Milton. His prose writings consist of Essays on 
Theology, Politics, History, Criticism, and "The 
Transcendental Metaphysics," &c. For some years 
he lived with Robert Southey, who showed him 
the most generous kindness and the tenderest char- 
ity. He died in the sixty-second year of his age, 
at Highgate. 



FROM "THE ANCIENT MARINER." 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 

The furrow follow'd free ; 
We were the first that ever burst 

Into that silent sea. 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 

'T was sad as sad could be ; 
And we did speak, only to break 

The silence of the sea ! 

All in a hot and copper sky, 

The bloody sun, at noon, 
Eight up above the mast did stand, 

No bigger than the moon. 



190 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Day after day, day after day, 

"We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 

A3 idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water everywhere, 
And all the boards did shrink ; 

Water, water everywhere, 
Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot : — O Christ I 

That ever this should be. 
Tea, slimy things did crawl with legs 

Upon the slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout, 
The death-fires danced at night ; 

The water, like a witch's oils, 

Burn'd green, and blue, and white. 



FROM "CHMSTABEL." 

Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above ; 

And life is thorny, and youth is vain ; 
And to be wroth with one we love, 

Doth work like madness on the brain. 
And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
With Roland and Sir Leoline. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 191 

Each spoke words of high disdain 

And insult to his heart's best brother : 

They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
But never either found another 

To free the hollow heart from paining — 

They stood aloof, the scars remaining ; 

Like cliffs Avhich had been rent asunder ; 
A dreary sea now flows between : — 

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
The marks of that which once hath been. 



YOUTH AND AGE. 

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, 
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 

Both were mine! Life went a maying 
With Hope and Poesy 
When I was young ! 

When I was young? — Ah, woeful when ! 
Ah ! for the change 'twixt now and then ! 
This breathing house not built with hands, 

This body that does me grievous wrong. 
O'er airy cliffs and glitt'ring sands, 

How lightly then it flash'd along : — 
Like those trim skiffs unknown of yore, 

On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
That ask no aid of sail or oar, 

That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 
Naught cared this body for wind or weather 
When youth and I lived in 't together. 



192 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Flowers are lovely ; love is flower-like ; 

Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
O ! the joys that come down shower-like, 

Of friendship, love, and liberty, 
Ere I was old ! 
"Which tells me, Youth 's no longer here ! 

Youth! for years so many and sweet, 
'T is known that you and I were one ; 

1 '11 think it but a fond conceit — 

It cannot be that thou art gone ! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd : 
And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
"What strange disguise hast now put on, 
To make-believe that thou art gone ? 
I see these locks in silvery slips, 
' This drooping gait, this alter'd size : 
But spring-tide blossoms on thy lips, 

And tears take sunshine from thine eyes I 
Life is but thought : so think I will, 
That youth and I are housemates still. 

Dew-drops are the gems of morning, 

But the tears of mournful eve I 
Where no hope is, life 's a warning, 
That only serves to make us grieve 
When we are old: 
That only serves to make us grieve 
With oft and tedious taking leave. 
Like some poor nigh-related guest 
That may not rudely be dismiss'd, 
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, 
And tells the jest without the smile. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 193 



HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald awful head, O sov'reign Blanc! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Eave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form ! 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silent! Around thee and above, 
Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thoughts : entranced in prayer 

1 worshipp'd the Invisible alone; 
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 

So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy, 
Till the dilating soid, enrapt, transfused, 
Into the mighty vision passing — there, 
As in her natural form, swell'st vast to heaven ! 
Awake my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! x\wake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs all join my nymn! 
Thou first and chief, sole sov'reign of tho vale ! 
O, struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
9 



194 SELECTIONS PROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink : 

Companion of the morning star at dawn, 

Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 

Co-herald : wake, O wake, and utter praise ! 

"Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 

Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? 

Who made thee parent of perpetual springs ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 

Who called you forth from night and utter death? 

From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth, 

Down those precipitous, black jagged rocks, 

Forever shatter'd, and the same forever ? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life, 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 

Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ? 

And who commanded, (and the silence came,) 

Here let the billows stiffen and have rest ? 

Ye icefalls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 

Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 

And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 

Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! 

Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 

Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun 

Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers 

Of liveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? 

God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 

Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo God ! 

God ! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice ! 

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 

And in their perilous falls shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! 

Ye wild-goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 

Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm ! 




THE NIGHTINGALE. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 195 

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 

Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 

Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! 

Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky -pointing peaks, 

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 

Shoots downward, glitt'ring through the pure serene, 

Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast — 

Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 

That as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low 

In adoration, upward from thy base 

Slow trav'ling with dim eyes, suffused with tears, 

Solemnly seem'st like a vapoury cloud 

To rise before me. Rise, 0, ever rise ! 

Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! 

Thou kingly Spirit, throned among the hills, 

Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 

Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 

-And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 

Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God ! 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

No cloud, no relic of the sunken day 
Distinguishes the West ; no long thin slip 
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge ! - 
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 
But hear no murmuring ; it flows silently 
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 
A balmy night! and though the stars be dim, 
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 



196 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS- 

A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 

And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, 

" Most musical, most melancholy " bird ! 

A melancholy bird ? ! idle thought ! 

In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 

But some night-wand'ring man, whose heart was pierced 

With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, 

Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 

And so, poor wretch ! fill'd all things with himself, 

And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 

Of his own sorrow ; he, and such as he, 

First named these notes a melancholy strain : 

And many a poet echoes the conceit — 

Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 

When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs' 

Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, 

By sun or moonlight, to the influxes 

Of shapes, and sounds, and shifting elements 

Surrendering his whole spirit — of his song 

And of his fame forgetful. So his fame 

Should share in Nature's immortality, 

A venerable thing ! and so his song 

Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 

Be loved like Nature ! But 't will not be so ; 

And youths and maidens most poetical, 

Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring 

In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still, 

Full of meek sympathy, must heave their sighs 

O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 

My friend, and thou, our sister ! we have learnt 

A different lore : we may not thus profane 

Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 

And joyance ! 'T is the merry Nightingale 

That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates, 

With fast, thick warble his delicious notes, 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 197 

As he "were fearful that an April night 
"Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love-chaunt, and disburden his full soul 
Of all its music. 

And I know a grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge 
Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
This grove is wild with tangling underwood, 
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 
Thin grass and king-cups, grow" within the paths. 
But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
So many Nightingales : and far and near, 
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, 
They answer and provoke each other's songs 
With skirmish and capricious passagings, 
And nmrrnurs musical, and swift jug jug. 
And one, low piping, sounds more sweet than all, 
Stirring the air with such an harmony 
That, should you close your eyes, you might almost 
Forget it was not day ! On moonlight bushes, 
Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, 
You may perchance behold them on the twigs, 
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full, 
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
Lights up her love-torch. 

A most gentle maicl, 
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
(E'en like a lady vowed and dedicate 
To something more than Nature, in the grove) 
Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes. 
That gentle maid! and oft a moment's space, 
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, 
Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the moon 



198 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky 

"With one sensation, and these wakeful birds 

Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 

As if one quick and sudden gale had swept 

An hundred airy harps ! And she hath watch'd 

Many a Nightingale perch giddily, 

On bloss'my twig still swinging from the breeze, 

And to that motion tune his wanton song, 

Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. 

Farewell, O warbler ! till to-morrow eve ; 

And you, my friends, farewell ! a short farewell ! 

"We have been loitering long and pleasantly, 

And now for our dear homes. That strain again ? 

Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe, 

Who, capable of no articulate sound, 

Mars all things with his imitative lisp, 

How he would place his hand beside his ear, 

His little hand, the small forefinger up, 

And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise 

To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well 

The evening star ; and once, when he awoke 

In most distressful mood, (some inward pain 

Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream,) 

I hurried with him to our orchard-plot, 

And he beheld the moon, and, hush'd at once, 

Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, 

While his fair eyes, that swam with undropt tears, 

Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam ! Well ! — 

It is a father's tale : but if that Heaven 

Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up 

Familiar with these songs, that with the night 

He may associate joy ! Once more farewell, 

Sweet Nightingale ! Once more, my friends, farewell ! 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 109 



1774—1843. 

Robert Southey, the kindred spirit in many re- 
spects, and the brother-in-law of Coleridge, was the 
son of a linen-draper, and a native of Bristol. 
After a roving and vacillating yonth, he settled 
down upon the shores of the Greta, and for many 
years applied himself to severe study with unre- 
mitting vigour and intensity. For many years 
he was one of the principal contributors to the 
Quarterly Review, and that journal owed much 
of its great repute to him. He seems to have worn 
out his intellect, and for several years previous to 
his death was in a state of helpless idiocy. 



THE HOLLY-TREE. 

O reader ! hast thou ever stood to see 

The holly-tree ? 
The eye that contemplates it well perceives 

Its glossy leaves, 
Order'd by an Intelligence so wise, 
As might confound the atheist's sophistries. 



200 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BEITISH POETS. 

Below a circling fence, its leaves are seen 

"Wrinkled and keen : 
No grazing cattle through their prickly round 

Can reach to wound. 
But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 
Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear. 

I love to view these things with curious eyes, 

And moralize : 
And in this wisdom of the holly-tree 

Can emblems see 
"Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, 
One which may profit in the after time. 

Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear 

Harsh and austere ; 
To those who on my leisure would intrude, 

Beserved and rude ; 
Gentle at home amid my friends I 'd be, 
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. 

And should my youth, as youth is apt to know, 

Some harshness show, 
All vain asperities I day by day 

"Would wear away, 
Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. 

And as, when all the summer-trees are seen 

So bright and green, 
The holly leaves a sober hue display 

Less bright than they ; 
But when the bare and wintry woods we see, 
What then so cheerful as the holly-tree? 




MOONLIGHT. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 201 

So serious should my youth appear among 

The thoughtless throng ; 
So would I seem amid the young and gay 

More grave than they ; 
That in my age as cheerful I might be 
As the green winter of the holly-tree. 



MOONLIGHT. 

How calmly, gliding through the dark blue sky, 
The midnight moon ascends ! Her placid beams 
Through thinly-scattered leaves and boughs grotesque 
Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope. 
Here, o'er the chestnut's fretted foliage gray, 
And massy, motionless they spread ; here shine 
Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night 
Then- chasms ; and there the glittering argentry 
Ripples and glances on the confluent streams. 
A lovelier, purer light than that of day 
Rests on the hills ; and how awfully, 
Into that deep and tranquil firmament, 
The summits of Anseva rise serene ! 
The watchman on the battlements partakes 
The stillness of the solemn hour ; he feels 
The silence of the earth ; the endless sound 
Of flowing waters soothes him ; and the stars 
Which, in that brightest moonlight, well-nigh quench'd, 
Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth 
Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen, 
Draw on with elevating influence, 
Toward eternity, the attemper'd mind. 
Musing on worlds beyond the grave he stands, 
And to the Virgin Mother silently 
Breathes forth her hymn of praii e 
9* 



202 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



mn dkmjrfalL 



1777—1844. 

The author of "The Pleasures of Hope," "Theo- 
dric," and " Gertrude of "Wyoming," was a native 
of Glasgow, Scotland. His father was a merchant, 
then in humble circumstances, having lost his for- 
mer wealth by commercial embarrassments. The 
son displayed an active mind, and a strong attach- 
ment to learning, from very early life. He was 
educated at the University of his native city, where 
he excelled as a scholar, particularly in the Greek 
classics. He spent some years of his youth in Edin- 
burgh, where his talents were at once recognised. 
In 1799, at the age of twenty-one, he published "The 
Pleasures of Hope," which almost immediately 
gained for him a wide celebrity. Subsequently he 
married his cousin, and settled near London. The 
death of one of his sons, and the madness of another, 
together with poverty and ill health, made his life a 
scene of sorrow and constant struggle. Notwith- 
standing, he generously maintained his mother and 
sisters. In 1828 his wife, whom he loved with true 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 203 

affection, was taken from him by death. The latter 
years of his life were only saved from poverty by a 
pension from the government. His writings are 
remarkable for their strict morality — among them 
all there is not a line which is either infidel or 
impure. It now is generally known that the other- 
wise unspotted reputation of his private life was 
sullied by habits of inebriety. 



THE LAST MAN. 

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 

The sun himself must die, 
Before this mortal shall assume 

Its immortality ! 
I saw a vision in my sleep 
That gave my spirit strength to sweep 

Adown the gulf of time ! 
I saw the last of human mould 
That shall Creation's death behold, 

As Adam saw her prime ! 

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, 
The Earth with age was wan; 

The skeletons of nations were 
Around that lonely man ! 

Some had expired in fight — the brands 

Still rusted in their bony hands ; 



204 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

In plague and famine some ! 
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread, 
And ships were drifting with the dead 

To shores where all was dumb ! 

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 

With dauntless words, and high, 
That shook the sere leaves from the wood 

As if a storm pass'd by, 
Saying, "We are twins in death, proud Sun ! 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 

' T is Mercy bids thee go ; 
For thou ten thousand thousand years 
Hast seen the tide of human tears, 

That shall no longer flow. 

What though beneath thee man put forth 

His pomp, his pride, his skill, 
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth 

The vassals of his will, — 
Yet mourn not I thy parted sway, 
Thou dim, discrowned king of day ; 

For all those trophied arts 
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang 
Heal'd not a passion or a pang 

Entail'd on human hearts. 

Go ! let Oblivion's curtain fall 

Upon the stage of men, 
Nor with thy rising beams recall 

Life's tragedy again, — 
Its piteous pageant bring not back, 
Nor waken flesh upon the rack 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 205 

Of pain anew to writhe — 
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd, 
Or mown in battle by the sword, 

Like grass beneath the scythe. 

E'en I am weary in yon skies 

To watch thy fading fire ; 
Test of all sumless agonies, 

Behold not me expire! 
My lips that speak thy dirge of death, — 
Theii sounded gasp and gurgling breath, 

To see, thou shalt not boast. 
Th' eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, — 
The majesty of Darkness shall 

Receive my parting ghost! 

This spirit shall return to Him 

That gave its heavenly spark ; 
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 

When thou thyself art dark ! 
No ! it shall live again, and shine 
In bliss unknown to beams of thine, 

By Him recall'd to breath, 
"Who captive led captivity, 
Who robb'd the Grave of victory, 

And took the sting from Death ! 

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 

On Nature's awful waste, 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that man shall taste — 
Go, tell that night that hides thy face 
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race 

On Earth's sepulchral clod ; 
The dark'ning Universe defy 
To quench his Immortality, 

Or shako bis trust in God ! 



206 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



THE RAINBOW. 

The evening was glorious, and light through the trees 
Play'd in sunshine the raindrops, the birds, and the breeze ; • 
The landscape, outstretching, in loveliness lay, 
On the lap of the year, in the beauty of May. 

For the bright Queen of Spring, as she pass'd down the vale, 
Left her robe on the trees, and her breath on the gale ; 
And the smile of her promise gave joy to the hours, 
And fresh in her footsteps sprang herbage and flowers. 

The skies, like a banner in sunset unroll'd, 
O'er the west threw their splendour of azure and gold ; 
But one cloud, at a distance, rose dense, and increas'd 
Till its margin of black touch'd the zenith and east. 

"We gazed on these scenes, while around us they glow'd, 

When a vision of beauty appeared on the cloud ; 

'T was not like the sun as at midday we view, 

Nor the moon that rolls lightly through star-light and blue. 

Like a spirit it came in the van of a storm, 
And the eye and the heart hail'd its beautiful form ; 
For it look'd not severe, like an angel of wrath, 
But its garments of brightness illumed its dark path. 

In the hues of its grandeur sublimely it stood, 
O'er the river, the village, the field, and the wood ; 
And the river, field, village, and woodland grew bright, 
As conscious they felt and afforded delight. 

'T was the bow of Omnipotence, bent in His hand, 
Whose grasp at creation the universe spann'd ; 
'T was the presence of God in a symbol sublime ; 
His vow from the flood to the exit of time. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 207 

Not dreadful, as when in a whirlwind he pleads, 
When storms are his chariot, and lightning his steeds, 
The black cloud of vengeance his banner unfurl'd, 
And thunder his voice to a guilt-stricken world ! 

In the breath of his presence, when thousands expire, 

And seas boil with fury, and rocks burn with fire ; 

And the sword and the plague-spot with death strew the 

plain, 
And vultures and wolves are the graves of the slain — 

Not such was that Kainbow, that beautiful one ! 
Whose arch was refraction, its key-stone the sun ; 
A pavilion it seem'd, with a deity graced, 
And Justice and Mercy met there and embraced. 

Awhile, and it sWeetly bent over the gloom, 
Like Love o'er a death-couch, or Hope o'er the tomb ; 
Then left the dark scene, whence it slowly retired, 
As Love had just vanished, or Hope had expired. 

I gazed not alone on that source of my song ; 
To all who beheld it these verses belong ; 
Its presence to all was the path of the Lord! 
Each full heart expanded, grew warm, and adored. 

Like a visit — the converse of friends — or a day, 
That Bow from my sight pass'd forever away ; 
Like that visit, that converse, that day, to my heart, 
That Bow from remembrance can never depart. 

'Tis a picture in memory, distinctly defined, 
With the stroug and imperishing colours of mind : 
A part of my being beyond my control, 
Beheld on tbat cloud, and transcribed on my soul. 



208 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



THE SCEPTIC. 

O ! lives there, Heaven ! beneath thy dread expanse, 

One hopeless, dark Idolater of Chance, 

Content to feed, with pleasures unrefin'd, 

The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind ; 

Who, mould'ring earthward, reft of every trust, 

In joyless union wedded to the dust, 

Could all his parting energy dismiss, 

And call this barren world sufficient bliss ? 

There live, alas ! of Heaven-directed mien, 

Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene, 

Who hail thee, man! the pilgrim of a day, 

Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay ! 

Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower, 

Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower ! 

A friendless slave, a child without a sire, 

Whose mortal life and momentary fire, 

Lights to the grave his chance-created form, 

As ocean- wrecks illuminate the storm ; 

And when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er, 

To night and silence sink for evermore ! 

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, 

Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame ? 

Is this your triumph, this your proud applause, 

Children of Truth, and champions of her cause ? 

For this hath Science search'd on weary wing, 

By shore and sea, each mute and living thing ? 

Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the steep, 

To world's unknown, and isles beyond the deep ? 

Or round the cape her living chariot driven, 

And wheel'd in triumph through the signs of heaven ? 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 209 

star-eyed Science ! hast thou wander'd there, 
To waft us home the message of despair ? 
Then bind the palm, thy sages' brow to suit, 
Of blasted leaf and death-distilling fruit ! 

Ah me ! the laurel'd wreath that nmrder rears, 
Blood-nursed and water'd by the widow's tears, 
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, 
As waves the night-shade round the sceptic's head. 
What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain ? — 

1 smile on death, if heav'nward Hope remain ! 
But if the warring winds of Nature's strife 
Be all the faithless charter of my life ; 

If Chance awaked, inexorable pow'r! 
This frail and feverish being of an hour, 
Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep, 
Swift as the tempest travels on the deep, 
To know Delight but by her parting smile, 
And toil, and wish, and weep a little while ; 
Then melt, ye elements, that form'd in vain 
This troubled pulse, and visionary brain ! 
Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom ! 
And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb ! 
Truth, ever lovely, since the world began, 
The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man, — 
How can thy words from balmy slumber start 
Beposing Virtue, pillow'd on the heart! 
Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder roll'd, 
And that were true which Nature never told, 
Let wisdom smile not on her conquer'd field ; 
No rapture dawns, no treasure is reveal'd ! 
O ! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate, 
The doom that bars us from a better fate ; 
But, sad as angels for the good man's sin, 
"Weep to record, and blush to give it in ! 



210 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Cease every joy to glimmer on my mind, 

But leave — O leave the light of Hope behind ! 

What though my winged hours of bliss have been 

Like angel- visits, few and far between ! 

Her musing mood shall every pang appease, 

And charm — when pleasures lose the power to please ! 

Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime 
Peal'd their first note to sound the march of time, 
Thy joyous youth began — but not to fade. 
"When all the sister planets have decay'd, 
When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, 
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below ; 
Thou, undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruin smile, 
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile ! 

"Pleasures of Hope." 



THE ROSE OE THE WILDERNESS. 

At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour 

I have mused, in a sorrowful mood, 
On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower 

Where the home of my forefather's stood. 
All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode, 

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree ; 
And travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd road 
Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode 

To his hills that encircle the sea. 

Yet, wand'ring, I found on my ruinous walk, 

By the dial-stone, aged and green, 
One rose of the wilderness, left on its stalk, 

To mark where a garden had been. 




WILDERNESS 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 211 

Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, 

All wild in the silence of Nature, it drew 
From each wandering sunbeam a lonely embrace, 
For the night-weed and thorn over-shadow'd the place 
"Where the flower of my forefathers grew. 

Sweet Bud of the Wilderness ! emblem of all 

That remains in this desolate heart! 
The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall, 

But patience shall never depart! 
Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright 

In the days of delusion, by fancy combined, 
"With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, 
Abandon my soul like a dream of the night, 

And leave but a desert behind. 

Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns 

"When the faint and the feeble deplore ; 
Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems 

A thousand wild waves on the shore ! 
Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain, 

May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate ; 
Tea, even the name I have worshipp'd in vain, 
Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again, 

To bear is to conquer our fate. 



212 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BEITISH POETS. 



THE EXILE OF ERIN. 

There came to the heach a poor Exile of Erin, 

The dew on his thin rohe hung heavy and chill ; 
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing, 

To wander alone hy the wind-beaten hill ; 
But the day-star attracted his eyes' sad devotion, 
For it rose o'er his own native Isle of the Ocean, 
Where once, in the glow of his youthful emotion. 
He sung the bold anthem of Erin go Bragh ! 

O sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger ; 

The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee ; 
But I have no refuge from famine or danger, 

A home and a country remains not for me. 
Ah ! never again in the green sunny bowers, 
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, 
Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, 
Or strike to the numbers of Erin go Bragh ! 

.0! where is my cottage that stood by the wild wood? 

Sisters and sires, did ye weep for its fall ? 
O ! where is the mother that watch'd o'er my childhood ? 

And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all? 
Ah ! my sad soul, long abandon'd by pleasure, 
O ! why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure ? 
Tears like the rain-drops may fall without measure, 

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall ! 

Erin, my country, though sad and forsaken, 

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; 
But alas ! in a far distant land I awaken, 

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more? 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 213 

O hard, cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me, 
In a mansion of peace, where no peril can chase me ? 
Ah ! never again shall my brothers embrace me, 
They died to defend me — or live to deplore ! 

But yet, all its fond recollections suppressing, 

One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw ; 
Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing ! 
Land of my forefathers, Eein go Bragh ! 
Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion, 
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean, 
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, 
O Eein ma Voueneen ! Eein go Beagh ! 



214 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



1780—1848. 



The author of " Lalla Rookh " was a native of 
Dublin. He wrote many songs, ballads, &c, 
together with a number of prose works, among 
which are the lives of Richard Brinsley Sheridan 
and Lord Byron. 



THOSE EVENING BELLS. 

Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 
How many a tale their mnsic tells, 
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time, 
"When last I heard their soothing chime. 

Those joyous hours are passed away ; 
And many a heart that then was gay, 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
And hears no more those evening bells. 

And so 'twill be when I am gone; 
That tuneful peal will still ring on ; 
While other bards shall walk these dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells ! 



THOMAS MOORE. 215 



A REFLECTION AT SEA. 

See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile, 
Yon little billow heaves its breast ; 

And foams and sparkles for awhile, 
Then, murmuring, subsides to rest. 

Thus man, the sport of bliss and care, 
Rises on Time's eventful sea ; 

And, having swell'd a moment there, 
Thus melts into eternity ! 



DIRGE OF HINDA. 

Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter ! 

(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea ;) 
No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water 

More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. 

! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, 
How light was thy heart till love's witchery came ; 

Like the wind of the South o'er a summer lute blowing, 
And hush'd all its music, and wither'd its frame. 

But long upon Araby's green, sunny highlands, 
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom 

Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, 
With naught but the sea-star to light up her tomb. 



216 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her Hero, forget thee, 
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start ; 

Close, close by the side of that Hero she '11 set thee, 
Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart. 

Farewell ! be it ours to embellish thy pillow 

With everything beauteous that grows in the deep ; — 

Each flower of the rock, and each gem of the billow, 
Shall sweeten thy bed, and illumine thy sleep. 

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber 
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ; 

With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed chamber, 
We Peris of ocean by moonlight have slept. 

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, 
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; 

We '11 seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling, 
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. 

Farewell — farewell, until Pity's sweet fountain 
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave ; 

They '11 weep for the chieftain who died on that mountain, 
They '11 weep for the maiden who sleeps in this wave. 



0! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. 

O ! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, 
Where cold and unhonoured his relics are laid ; 
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed, 
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head. 



THOMAS MOORE. 217 

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, 
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ; 
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, 
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. 



HIDDEN SORROW. 

As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow, 
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below ; 
So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, 
Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while. 



LITTLE THINGS. 

Alas ! how light a cause may move 
Dissension between hearts that love ! 
Hearts, that the world in vain has tried, 
And sorrow but more closely tied : 
That stood the storm when waves were rough, 
Yet in a sunny hour fall off, 
Like ships that have gone down at sea 
When heaven was all tranquillity ! 
A something light as air, — a look, — 
A word unkind, or wrongly take?i, — 
O ! love, that tempest never shook, 
A breath, a touch like this, hath shaken. 
10 



218 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



lUgiualfr jftfor, 



1783—1826. 

This distinguished divine and poet was a native of 
Malpas, in Cheshire, and received his education 
at Oxford. Before leaving the University he was 
looked upon as a youth of sterling poetic talent, as 
well as of genuine piety. After travelling quite 
extensively for the improvement of his mind, as 
much as for the gratification of his curiosity, he 
returned to England, where he was settled over a 
charge in his native diocese, and at the age of 
forty was appointed Bishop of Calcutta, whither he 
went. He was ardently devoted to the missionary 
work, and contemplated the beginning of great 
labours and severe toil ; but died in the midst of 
his hopes and his usefulness. His disease was 
^apoplexy, and his death sudden. His works con- 
sist of poems, of which "Palestine" is the most 
celebrated; a volume of "Travels," one of "Ser- 
mons," and another of " Lectures," with a " Life of 
Bishop Taylor." 



REGINALD HEBER, D. D. 219 



MISSIONARY HYMN. 

From Greenland's icy mountains, 

From India's coral strand ; 
Where Afric's sunny fountains 

Roll down their golden sand ; 
From many an ancient river, 

From many a palmy plain, 
They call us to deliver 

Their land from error's chain. 

"What though the spicy breezes 

Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle ; 
Though every prospect pleases, 

And only man is vile : 
In vain with lavish kindness 

The gifts of God are strown ; 
The heathen in his blindness 

Bows down to wood and stone. 

Shall we whose souls are lighted 

"With wisdom from on high, 
Shall we to men benighted 

The lamp of life deny? 
Salvation — 0, salvation! 

The joyful sound proclaim, 
Till earth's remotest nation 

Has learn'd Messiah's name. 

Waft, waft, ye winds His story, 
And you, ye waters, roll, 

Till, like a sea of glory, 

It spreads from pole to pole : 



220 SELECTION'S FKOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Till o'er our ransom'd nature 
The Lamb for sinners slain, 

Kedeemer, King, Creator, 
In bliss returns to reign. 



HYMN. 



O blest were the accents of early creation, 

When the word of Jehovah came down from above ; 

In the clouds of the earth to infuse animation, 
And wake their cold atoms to life and to love ! 

And mighty the tones which the firmament rended, 
When on wheels of the thunder, and wings of the wind, 

By lightning, and hail, and thick darkness attended, 
He utter'd on Sinai his laws to mankind. 

And sweet was the voice of the First-born of Heaven, 
(Though poor His apparel, though earthly His form,) 

Who said to the mourner, "Thy sins are forgiven! " 
" Be whole," to the sick, and "Be still," to the storm. 

O Judge of the world ! when array'd in thy glory, 
Thy summons again shall be heard from on high ; 

While Nature stands trembling and naked before thee, 
And waits on thy sentence to live or to die ; 

When the heavens shall fly fast from the sound of thy 
thunder, 

And the sun, in thy lightnings, grow languid and pale, 
And the sea yield her dead, and the tomb cleave asunder, 

In the hour of thy terrors let mercy prevail ! 



REGINALD HEBER, D. D. 221 



THE JUDGMENT. 

In the sun,'and moon, and stars, 
Signs and wonders there shall be ; 

Earth shall quake with inward wars, 
Nations with perplexity. 

Soon shall Ocean's hoary deep, 
Toss'd with stronger tempests rise ; 

Wilder storms the mountains sweep, 
Louder thunders rock the skies. 

Dread alarms shall shake the proud, 
Pale amazement, restless fear ; 

And amid the thunder-cloud 
Shall the Judge of men appear. 

But though from His awful face 

Heaven shah fade, and earth shall fly, 

Fear not ye, His chosen race, 
Your redemption draweth nigh. 



LIFE FADING. 



Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 

Bridal of earth and sky! 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, 

For thou, alas ! must die ! 

Sweet rose in air whose odours wave, 
And colour charms the eye, 

Thy root is ever in its grave, 
And thou, alas ! must die ! 



222 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Sweet spring, of days and roses made, 
Whose charms for beauty vie, 

Thy days depart, thy roses fade, 
Thou too, alas! must die! 

Be wise, then, Christian, while you may, 

For swiftly time is flying ; 
The thoughtless man that laughs to-day 

To-morrow will be dying ! 



EARLY PIETY. 



By cool Siloam's shady rill, 

How sweet the lily grows; 
How sweet the breath, beneath the hill, 

Of Sharon's dewy rose. 

Lo! such the child whose early feet 
The paths of peace have trod ; 

Whose secret heart, with influence sweet, 
Is upward drawn to God. 

By cool Siloam's shady rill 

The lily must decay ; 
The rose that blooms beneath the hill 

Must shortly fade away. 

And soon, too soon, the wintry hour 

Of man's maturer age 
Will shake the soul with sorrow's power, 

And stormy passions rage. 



EEGINALD HEBER, D. D. 223 

O Thou whose infant feet were found 

"Within thy Father's shrine ! 
"Whose years, with changeless virtue crown'd, 

Were all alike divine, 

Dependent on Thy bounteous breath, 

We seek Thy grace alone ; 
In childhood, manhood, age and death, 

To keep us still Thine own. 



DEATH. 



Beneath our feet, and o'er our head, 

Is equal warning given ; 
Beneath us lie the countless dead, — 

Above us is the heaven. 

Death rides on every passing breeze, 

And lurks in every flower ; 
Each season has its own disease, — 

Its peril every hour. 

Our eyes have seen the rosy light 
Of youth's soft cheek decay ; 

And fate descend in sudden night 
On manhood's middle day. 

Our eyes have seen the steps of age 

Halt feebly to the tomb ; 
And shall earth still our hearts engage, 

And dreams of days to come? 



224 SELECTIONS PROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Turn, mortal, turn; thy danger know; 

Where'er thy foot can tread, 
The earth rings hollow from below, 

And warns thee by her dead. 

Turn, mortal, turn ; thy soul apply 

To truths divinely given ; 
The dead who underneath thee lie 

Shall live for hell or heaven. 



AFFLICTION. 



O ! God, who madest earth and sky, 

The darkness and the day, 
Give ear to this thy family, 

And help us when we pray. 

For wild the waves of bitterness 

Around our vessel roar, 
And heavy grows the pilot's heart 

To view the rocky shore. 

The cross our Master bore for us 
For Him we fain would bear ; 

But mortal strength to weakness turns, 
And courage to despair. 

Have mercy on our failings, Lord ! 

Our sinking faith renew : 
And when thy sorrows visit us, 

O send thy patience too ! 



REGINALD HEBER, D. D. 225 



THE BIRTH OF CHRIST. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, 
Dawn on oiu- darkness, and lend us thine aid ; 

Star of the East, the horizon adorning, 
Guide where the infant Redeemer was laid. 

Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining, 
Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall ; 

Angels adore Him, in slumber reclining, 
Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all. 

Say, shall we yield Him in costly devotion, 

Odours of Eden, and off rings divine ? 
Gems from the mountain, and pearls from the ocean, 

Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine ? 

Vainly we offer each ample oblation ; 

"Vainly with gifts would His favour secure; 
Richer, by far, is the heart's adoration ; 

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. 



PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. 

'Mid the light spray their snorting camels stood, 
Nor bath'd a fetlock in the nauseous flood ; 
He comes — their leader comes ! tbe man of God, 
O'er the wide waters lifts his mighty rod, 
10* 



226 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

And onward treads. The circling waves retreat 
In hoarse, deep murmurs, from his holy feet ; 
And the chased surges, inly roaring, show 
The hard wet sand and coral hills below. 

"With limbs that falter, and with hearts that swell, 
Down, down they pass — a steep and slippery dell ; 
Around them rise, in pristine chaos hurl'd, 
The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world ; 
And flowers that blush beneath the ocean green, 
And caves, the sea-calves' low-roof'd haunt, are seen. 
Down, safely down the narrow pass they tread ; 
The beetling waters storm above their head : 
"While far behind retires the sinking day, 
And fades on Edom's hills its latest ray. 

Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light, 
Or dark to them, or cheerless came the night. 
Still in their van, along that dreadful road, 
Blazed broad and fierce the brandish'd torch of God. 
Its meteor glare a tenfold lustre gave, 
On the long mirror of the rosy wave ; 
While its blest beams a sunlike heat supply, 
Warm every cheek, and dance in every eye. 
— To them alone, for Misraim's wizard train 
Invoke for light their monster-gods in vain : 
Clouds heap'd on clouds their struggling sight confine, 
And tenfold darkness broods above their line. 
Yet on they fare, by reckless vengeance led, 
And range, unconscious, through the ocean's bed : 
Till midway, now — that strange and fiery form 
Show'd his dread visage lightning through the storm ; 
With withering splendour blasted all their might, 
And brake their chariot- wheels, and marr'd their coursers' 

flight. 
" Fly, Misraim, fly ! " The ravenous floods they see, 
And fiercer than the floods the Deity. 



KEGINALD HEBER, D. D. 227 

"Fly, Misraiin, fly!" From Edom's coral strand 
Again the prophet stretch'd his dreadful wand : 
"With one wild crash the thundering waters sweep, 
And all is waves, a dark and lonely deep — 
Yet o'er those lonely waves such murmurs past, 
As mortal waning swell'd the nightly hlast ; 
And strange and sad the whispering breezes bore 
The groans of Egypt to Arabia's shore. 



228 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 



3 Op <KftUJ501U 

1785—1854. 

Professor Wilson, best known in our own country 
as Christopher North, was a native of Paisley, 
Scotland, and for many years Professor of Moral 
Philosophy in Edinburgh University. He was for 
some time one of the editors of Blackwood's Maga- 
zine. His principal poetical works are, "The City 
of the Plague," " Unimore," _ and the "Isle of 
Palms." He wrote quite extensively on philosoph- 
ical and moral subjects. His "Lights and Shad- 
ows of Scottish Life" have been often repub- 
lished in this country. 



FROM "THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE." 

Together will ye walk through long, long streets, 

All standing silent as a midnight church. 

You will hear nothing but the brown red grass 

Rustling beneath your feet ; the very beating 

Of your own hearts will awe you ; the small voice 

Of that vain bauble, idly counting time, 

"Will speak a solemn language in the desert. 



JOHN WILSON. 229 

Look up to heaven, and there the sultry clouds, 

Still threat'ning thunder, lower with grim delight, 

As if the Spirit of the Plague dwelt there, 

Dark'ning the city with the shadows of death. 

Know ye that hideous hubhub ? Hark, far off 

A tumult like an echo ! On it comes, 

"Weeping and wailing, shrieks and groaning prayer ; 

And, louder than all, outrageous blasphemy. 

The passing storm hath left the silent streets. 

But are these houses near you tenantless ? 

Over your heads, from a window, suddenly 

A ghastly face is thrust, and yells of death 

With voice not human. Who is he that flies 

As if a demon dogg'd him on his path ? 

With ragged hair, white face, and bloodshot eyes, 

Raving, he rushes past you ; till he falls, 

As if struck by lightning, down upon the stones, 

Or, in blind madness, dash'd against the wall, 

Sinks backward into stillness. Stand aloof 

And let the Pest's triumphant chariot 

Have open way advancing to the tomb. 

See how he mocks the pomp and pageantry 

Of earthly kings ! a miserable cart, 

Heap'd up with human bodies ; dragg'd along 

By pale steeds, skeleton-anatomies : 

And onward urged by a wan meagre wretch, 

Doom'd never to return from the fcml pit, 

Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of horror. 

Would you look in ? Gray hairs and golden tresses, 

Wan shrivell'd cheeks that have not smil'd for years, 

And many a rosy visage smiling still ; 

Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary wrapt, 

With age decrepid, and wasted to the bone ; 

And youthful frames, august and beautiful, 

In spite of mortal pangs, — there lie they all, 



230 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Embraced in ghastliness ! But look not long, 
For haply, 'mid the faces glimmering there, 
The well-known cheek of some beloved friend 
Will meet thy gaze, or some small snow-white hand, 
Bright with the ring that holds her lover's hair. 
Let me sit down beside you. I am faint 
Talking of horrors that I look'd upon 
At last without a shudder. 



THE DEATH OF THE CHRISTIAN. 

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, 
A -gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow: 

Long had I watched the glory moving on 
O'er the still radiance of the lake below. 

Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow ! 

E'en in its very motion there was rest : 
"While every breath of eve that chanced to blow 

"Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West. 

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul ! 

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given ; 
And by the breath of Mercy made to roll 

Bight onward to the golden gates of Heaven, 
W~here, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies, 
And tells to man his glorious destinies. 




CHURCH-TARD SCENE 



JOHN WILSON. 231 



A CHURCH-YARD SCENE. 

How sweet and solemn, all alone, 
With rev'rend step from stone to stone, 

In a small village church-yard lying, 
O'er intervening flowers to move — 

And as we read the names unknown, 

Of young and old to judgment gone, 
And hear, in the calm air above, 

Time, onward softly flying, 
To meditate, in Christian love, 

Upon the dead and dying ! 

Across the silence seem to go 

With dream-like motion, wavey, slow, 

And shrouded in their folds of snow, 

The friends we loved, long, long ago ! 

Gliding across the sad retreat, 

How beautiful their phantom feet ! 

What tenderness is in their eyes, 

Turn'd where the poor survivor lies, 

'Mid monitory sanctities! — 

What years of vanish'd joy are fann'd 

From one uplifting of that hand 

In its white stillness ! When the shade 

Doth glimm'ringly in sunshine fade 

From our embrace, how dim appears 

This world's life, through a mist of tears ! 

Vain hopes ! wild sorrows ! needless fears ! 



232 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Such is the scene around me now : 
A little church-yard, on the brow 

Of a green pastoral hill ; 
Its sylvan village sleeps below ; 
And faintly here is heard the flow 

Of Woodbun's summer rill ; 
A place where all things mournful meet, 
And yet, the sweetest of the sweet ! 

The stillest of the still ! 

"With what a pensive beauty fall 
Across the mossy mouldering wall, 
That rose-tree's clustered arches ! 

The robin red-breast, warily, 
Bright through the blossoms leaves his nest, 
Sweet ingrate! through the winter blest 

At the firesides of men — but shy 
Through all the sunny, summer hours, — 
He hides himself among the flowers, 

In his own wild festivity. 

What lulling sound, and shadow cool, 

Hangs half the darken'd church-yard o'er, 
From thy green depths so beautiful, 

Thou gorgeous sycamore ! 
Oft hath the lonely wine and bread 

Been blest beneath thy murm'ring tent, 
Where many a bright and hoary head 

Bow'd at the awful sacrament. 
Now all beneath the turf are laid, 
On which they sat, and sang, and pray'd. 

Above that consecrated tree 
Ascends the tapering spire, that seems 

To lift the soul up silently 
To heaven, with all its dreams !- — 



JOHN WILSON. 233 

While in the belfry deep and low, 

From his heaved bosom's purple gleams, 

The dove's continuous murmurs flow, 

A dirge-like song, half bliss, half wo, 
The voice so lonely seems ! 



THE OCEAN. 



It is the midnight hour : — the beauteous sea, 

Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses ; 
While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee, 

Far down within the watery sky reposes, 
As if the ocean's heart were stirr'd 
With inward life ; a sound is heard 
Like that of dreamer murm'ring in his sleep ; 
'T is partly the billow, and partly the air, 
That lies like a garment, floating fair, 

Above the happy deep. 
The sea, I ween, cannot be fann'd 
By evening freshness from the land, 

For the land it is far away ; 
But God hath will'd that the sky-born breeze 
In the centre of the loneliest seas 

Should ever sport and play. 

Isle of Palms. 



234 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



f or& §gr0u. 



1788—1824. 

Lord Byron was born in London, in 1788 ; and 
died in Greece, April, 1824. His father, Captain 
Byron, was of a good family, but a reckless, ex- 
travagant man, who, marrying his wife solely for 
her fortune, when that was exhausted left her, as 
might have been expected, and a few years after- 
ward died on the Continent. The young poet was 
thus left to the care of his mother. Obliged to live 
in a far humbler manner than she had been accus- 
tomed to, neglected and insultingly spurned by 
her husband, a naturally haughty and ill-balanced 
mind, conjoined with an ungoverned temper, and 
strong feelings, all of which were roused to the ut- 
most, must have made the home of her boy any- 
thing but what he needed for the right develop- 
ment of his aspiring and passionate nature. She 
loved and hated, caressed and ridiculed him by 
turns. She looked upon him one moment with a 
sort of frenzied doating, and the next — stung by 
the remembrance of her wrongs and her bitter lot, 
maddened that it was not different, goaded by a 
wicked and almost insane desire of revenge, she 
stung his heart to the core by taunting him with 



LORD BYRON. 235 

his deformity, and sent back the strong tide of 
his boyish love with her bitter, reproachful words. 
Nobly would he have rewarded her affection had 
she shown him any; for all through his dark life 
his heart went out after something to love and cher- 
ish, and found it not ! The poet inherited much 
of his mother's nature; as much, perhaps, from after- 
training as from the natural constitution of his mind. 
Be that as it may, the shadow of the mother may 
often be descried in the mature acts and feelings 
of the son; we find the same quick, burning hate, 
the same passionate, unguarded expression, coupled 
with the father's reckless and extravagant habits, 
his want of principle, and his lack of an abiding 
sense of right and wrong. Added to this, Byron 
was heir to the wealth and title of his grand-uncle, 
to which he succeeded at an early age ; and in his 
youth began to seek relief from his stormy home 
and his passionate mother in dissipation and folly. 
At home, he was continually irritated and tormented ; 
and there was no place for him to find rest from 
vexation and anger save out in the wide, lonely 
world. Then, too, he loved with all the ardour of 
his nature, — noble and out-gushing as it was in the 
time of its innocence, — -and his love was coldly 
and sneeringly flung back again. He married 
hastily and injudiciously. His wife left him, and 
without a tie to bind him to any human being — 
without a link of uniting love, unsullied and 
pure — he held on for years and years. Truly 



236 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

his life was one long wringing pain. If he ever 
had tried to develop his nature into a noble, gen- 
erous life, such as it might have been, it seems 
as though circumstances, position, society, friends, 
and everything, were leagued against his efforts. 
Sternly he may have battled for the right — solemnly, 
and in deep, despairing sorrow, perchance, he 
often struggled against the evil influences around 
and within him ; all this may have been — but of 
his actual life we only know that it was in many 
respects mean, low, disgraceful, and wicked. 
What help had he from mortal man? Alas for 
the proud, unsanctified heart, striving to make its 
weakness strength' — to turn its giant tide of evil 
by faltering decision and shifting resolution! 
Byron's heart was changed. The forms -of beauty 
within it faded away, the bright dreams of purity 
lost their lustre, and the dark and polluting shad- 
ows of guilt, and deceiving pleasure, and remorse, 
wandered like skeletons up and down through 
the dimmed chambers of his spirit. Much of his 
depression of mind was undoubtedly the result of 
a diseased body and shattered nerves; though he 
might well look beyond life with dread and fear 
for its hereafter. 

From the commencement of his literary career 
to its close he was admired and applauded. 
Never before had poet reaped so quickly his 
harvest of praise and honour. Toward the latter 
part of his life he interested himself in the cause of 



LORD BYRON. 237 

Greece, then struggling against tyranny and 
aggression. There seemed to be a change in his 
inclinations, if not in his principles, which gave 
some promise of the exhibition of his splendid 
talents, unaccompanied by his former vices. He 
died in Greece, whither he had gone. His remains 
were afterward conveyed to England. 



APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. 

Koll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoftm'd, and unknown. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. 

The armaments which thuuderstrike the walls 
Of rock -built cities, bidding nations quake, 



238 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

And monarchs tremble in their capitals ; 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Eome, Carthage, what are they ? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ;— boundless, endless, and sublime — 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
"Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 't was a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were, a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 



LORD BYRON. 239 



MEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING CLAY. 

"When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 

Ah, whither strays the immortal mind ? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay, 

But leaves its darkened dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps, each planet's heavenly way? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 

Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
All, all in earth or skies display'd, 

Shall it survey, shall it recall ; 
Each fainter trace that mem'ry holds, 

So darkly, of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all that was at once appears. 

Before creation peopled earth, 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
And where the furthest heavens had birth, 

The spirit trace its rising track ; 
And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate, o'er all to be, 
While sun is quench'd or system breaks, 

Fix'd in its own eternity. 

Abode of love, hope, hate, or fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure; 
An age shall fleet like earthly year, 

Ii< years as moments shall endure. 



240 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Away, away, without a wing, 

O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall fly ; 
A nameless and eternal thing, 

Forgetting what it was to die. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of his spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever were still. 

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, 
But through them there roll'd not the breath of his pride ; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, 
With dew on his brow and rust on his mail ; 
And they were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances uplifted, the trumpets unblown. 



LORD BYKON. 241 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temples of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord. 



DARKNESS. 



I had a dream which was not all a dream : 
The bright sun was extingoish'd, and the stars 
Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
Rayless and pathless ; and the icy earth 
Swung blind and black'ning in the moonless air. 
Morn came and went and came, and brought no day : 
And men forgot their passions in the dread 
Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 
"Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light. 
And tbey did live by watch-fires ; and the thrones, 
The palaces of crowned kings, the huts, 
The habitations of all things which dwell, 
"Were burned for beacons ; cities were consumed, 
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes 
To look once more into each other's face. 
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 
Of the volcanoes and their mountain torch, 
A fearful hope was all the world contained : 
Forests were set on fire ; but hour by hour 
They fell and faded, and the crackling trunks 
Extinguished with a crash, and all was black. 
The brows of men, by the despairing light, 
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
The flashes fell upon them. Some lay down, 
And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did rest 
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled ; 
11 



242 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

And others hurried to and fro, and fed 

Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 

With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 

The pall of a past world ; and then, again, 

With curses cast them down upon the dust, 

And gnash'd their teeth, and howl'd. The wild birds shriek'dj 

And terrified did flutter on the ground, 

And flap their useless wings ; the wildest brutes 

Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawled 

And twined themselves among the multitude, 

Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food. 

And War, which for a moment was no more, 

Did glut himself again ; a meal was bought 

With blood ; and each sat sullenly apart, 

Gorging himself in gloom ; no love was left ; 

All earth was but one thought, and that was death — 

Immediate and inglorious ; and men 

Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh : 

The meagre by the meagre were devoured ; 

Even dogs assailed their masters, all save one; 

And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 

The birds, and beasts, and famished men at bay, 

Till hunger clung them, or the dropping-dead 

Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, 

But with a piteous and perpetual moan, 

And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 

Which answered not with a caress, he died. 

The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but two 

Of an enormous city did survive, 

And they were enemies ; they met beside 

The dying embers of an altar-place, 

Where had been heaped a mass of holy things 

For an unholy usage ; they raked up, 

And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands 

The feeble ashes ; and their feeble breath 



LORD BYRON. 243 

Blew for a little life, and made a flame 

Which was a mockery; then they lifted 

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 

Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died. 

Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 

Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 

Famine had written fiend. The world was void; 

The populous and the powerful was a lump — 

Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless — 

A lump of death, a chaos of hard clay. 

The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, 

And nothing stirred within their silent depths. 

Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 

And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropp'd 

They slept on the abyss without a surge. 

The waves were dead, the tides were in their grave ; 

The moon, their mistress, had expired before; 

The winds were withered in the stagnant air, 

And the clouds perished. Darkness hath no need 

Of aid from them. She was the universe. 



WATERLOO-THE BALL AND THE BATTLE. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair woman and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage bell ; 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! 



244 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Did ye not hear it? — No ; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance! let joy be nnconfined; 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet — 
But hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than befere ! 
Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar ! 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ! 

And there was mounting in hot haste ; the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Boused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips — " The foe ! They come ! 
They come ! " 

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 



LORD BYRON. 245 

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe, 
And burning with high hopes shall moulder cold and low. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty's circle, proudly gay ; 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn, the marshalling in arms — the day, 
Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 
Eider and horse — friend, foe — in one red burial blent ! 



BYRON'S FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 

Fare thee well ! and if forever, 

Still, forever, fare thee well ; 
E'en though unforgiving, never 

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 

Would that breast were bared before thee, 
Where thy head so oft hath lain, 

While that jjlacid sleep came o'er thee 
Which thou ne'er canst know again : 

Would that breast, by thee gianced over, 
Every inmost thought could show; 

Then thou would'st at last discover 
'T was not well to spurn it so. 



246 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Though the world for this commend thee, 
Though it smile upon the blow — 

E'en its praises must offend thee, 
Founded on another's woe. 

Though my many faults defaced me, 
Could no other arm be found 

Than the one which once, embraced me 
To inflict a cureless wound ? 

Yet, yet, thyself deceive not, 
Love may sink by slow decay; 

But, by sudden wrench, believe not 
Hearts can thus be torn away. 

Still thine own its life retaineth, 

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 

And th' undying thought which paineth, 
Is — that we no more may meet. 

These are words of deeper sorrow 
Than the wail about the dead ; 

Both shall live, but every morrow 
Wake us from a widow'd bed. 

And when thou would'st solace gather 
When our child's first accents flow, 

Wilt thou teach her to say " Father," 
Though his care she must forego ? 

When her little hands shall press thee, 
When her lip to thine is press'd, 

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, 
Think of him thy love had bless'd. 

Should her lineaments resemble 
Those thou never more may'st see ; 

Then thy heart will softly tremble 
With a pulse yet true to me. 



LORD BYRON. 247 

All my faults perchance thou knowest, 

All my madness none can know ; 
All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 

"Whither yet with thee they go. 

Every feeling hath been shaken ; 

Pride, which not a world could bow, 
Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, 

E'en my soul forsakes me now. 

But 'tis done ; all words are idle ; 

"Words from me are vainer still ; 
But the thoughts we cannot bridle 

Force their way without the will. 

Fare thee well — thus disunited, 

Torn from every nearer tie, 
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted, 

More than this I scarce can die. 



GREECE. 

He who hath bent him o'er the dead 

Ere the first day of death is fled, 

The first dark day of nothingness, 

The last of danger and distress, 

(Before Decay's effacing fingers 

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) 

And mark'd the mild, angelic air, 

The rapture of repose that 's there; 

The fix'd yet tender traits that streak 

The languor of the placid cheek, 



248 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

And but for that sad, shrouded eye, 
That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, 
And but for that chill, changeless brow, 
"Where cold Obstruction's apathy- 
Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 
As if to him it could impart 
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon : . 
Yes, but for these, and these, alone, 
Some moments, aye, one treacherous hour 
He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd 
The first, last look, by death reveal'd ! 
Such is the aspect of this shore ; 
'T is Greece, but living Greece no more ! 
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 
"We start, for soul is wanting there. 
Hers is the loveliness in death 
That parts not quite with parting breath ; 
But beauty with that fearful bloom, 
That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 
Expression's last receding ray, 
A gilded halo hov'ring round decay, 
The farewell beam of Feeling pass'd away ! 
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
"Which gleams, but warms' no more its cherish'd earth ! 

Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 
"Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
"Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave! 
Shrine of the mighty ! can it be 
That this is all remains of thee ? 
Approach, thou craven-crouching slave ; 

Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 
These waters blue that round you lave, 

O servile offspring of the free — 



LORD BYRON. 249 

Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ! 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
These scenes, their story not unknown, 
Arise, and make again your own : 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires ; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear 
That Tyranny shall quake to hear, 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame, 
They too will rather die than shame : 
For Freedom's battle once begun, 
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son, 
Though baffled oft, is ever won. 
Bear witness Greece, thy living page 
Attest it many a deathless age ! 
While kings, in dusky darkness hid, 
Have left a nameless pyramid, 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 
Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
A mightier monument command, 
The mountains of their native land ! 
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye 
The graves of those that cannot die. 
'T were long to tell, and sad to trace 
Each step from splendour to disgrace : 
Enough ! no foreign foe could quell 
Thy sold, till from itself it fell : 
Yes! self-abasement paved the way 
To villain-bonds and despots sway. 

The Giaour. 
11* 



250 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 



THOUGHT. 

The beings of the mind are not of clay; 

Essentially immortal, they create 

And multiply in us a brighter ray 

And more beloved existence ; that which Fate 

Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 

Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, 

First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 

"Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 

And with a fresher growth replenishing the. soil. 

Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 

The first from hope, the last from vacancy ; 

And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 

And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye,- 

Yet there are things whose strong reality 

Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 

More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 

And the strange constellations which the Muse 

O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse. 

Venice. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 251 



ftrq %in\z %\t\hi* 

1792—1822. 

This unfortunate man "was the eldest son of 
Sir Thomas Shelley, of Castle Goring, in Essex. 
His precocious mind was early developed in an 
unhappy direction which landed him ultimately in 
atheism. Every system of religion he esteemed a 
curse to the human mind ; and he was impressed 
by the consequent conviction that all the laws, 
institutions, and conventions of mankind are founded 
on the fraud, tyranny, and self-interest of the few, 
while the bulk of society lie in the misery, delusion, 
ignorance, and vice which he conceived to be the 
result of this state of things. These principles had 
germinated in his spirit since he had felt the oppres- 
sions of an Eton schoolboy ; and his melancholy 
childhood fed its desires with the forbidden lore of 
atheistic philosophy till he resolved to stand forth as 
the apostle of a complete revolution in the social 
and religious systems of the human race. His 
avowal of his opinions caused his expulsion from 
Oxford, and an imprudent early marriage cast him 
off from his family. After the birth of two chil- 
dren, he separated from his wife and went abroad. 
Shortly after his return the unhappy woman com- 



252 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

mitted suicide, a result that overwhelmed the ob- 
noxious poet with a torrent of public execration. 
On account of his opinions, he was deprived by 
law of the guardianship of his children, whom he 
loved with all the ardour of a peculiarly affection- 
ate nature. He had contracted a second marriage 
with the daughter of Mr. Godwin, the celebrated 
novelist. In search of health, and in dread of 
losing his other child, Shelley retired to Switz- 
erland, where he first met Byron. Thence he 
removed to Italy ; and after some years of disease, 
intense study, and literary labour, clouded also by 
domestic sorrows, he was drowned in the Gulf of 
Spezzia, in the east of the Genoese territory. The 
quarantine regulations forbade his burial; his' body 
was reduced to ashes, which were deposited, with 
his heart, which remained unconsumed, in the 
Protestant cemetery of Rome, in a spot formerly 
selected by himself, where his dead child reposed. 
It is sad to reflect that a spirit gifted with all the 
most beautiful susceptibilities of humanity, strong, 
intellectually, to grasp the universe ; pure, as 
unaided man is pure, in motive ; and clear, in the 
same sense, from active vice, was not yet protected 
from the glittering seductions- of vanity and pre- 
sumption, but, proudly confident, walked like a 
beautiful demon in mystic paths, 'where angels 
fear to tread.' " — Scrymgeour. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 253 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. 

The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams, 

Ocean, and all the living things that dwell 

Within the dsedal earth, lightning and rain, 

Earthquakes and fiery flood, and hurricane, 

The torpor of the year, -when feeble dreams 

Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep 

Holds every future leaf and flower, the bound 

With which from that detested trance they leap ; 

The works and ways of man ; their death and birth, 

And that of him, and all that his may be ; 

All things that move and breathe, with toil and sound, 

Are born and die, revolve, subside, and swell. 

Power dAvells apart in its tranquillity, 

Remote, serene, and inaccessible; 

And this, the naked countenance of earth, 

On which I gaze, even these primeval mountains, 

Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep, 

Like snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountains, 

Slow rolling on. There, many a precipice, 

Frost and the sun, in scorn of mortal power, 

Have piled dome, pyramid, and pinnacle ; 

A city of death, distinct with many a tower 

And wall impregnable of beaming ice. 

Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin 

Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky 

Rolls its perpetual stream ; vast pines are strewing 

Its destined path, or in the mangled soil, 

Branchless and shattered, stand ; the rocks, drawn down 

From yon remotest waste, have overthrown 



254 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

The limits ofthe dead and living world, 

Never to be reclaimed. The dwelling-place 

Of insects, beasts and birds, becomes its spoil ; 

Their food and their retreat forever gone, 

So much of life and joy is lost. The race ■ 

Of man flies far in dread : his work and dwelling 

Vanish like smoke before the tempest's stream, 

And their place is not known. Below, vast caves 

Shine in the rushing torrent's restless gleam, 

Which, from those secret chasms, in tumults swelling, 

Meet in the vale, and one majestic river, 

The breath and blood of distant lands, forever 

Bolls its loud waters to the ocean waves, 

Breathes its swift vapours to the circling air, 



Mont Blanc yet gleams on high ; — the power is there, 
The still and solemn power of many sights 
And many sounds, and much of life and death. 
In the calm darkness of the moonless nights, 
In the lone glare of day, the snows descend 
Upon that mountain ; none beholds them there, 
Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun, 
Or the star-beams dart through them ; winds contend 
Silently there, and heap the snow with breath 
Bapid and strong, but silently ! Its home 
The voiceless lightning in these solitudes 
Keeps innocently, and like vapour broods 
Over the snow. The secret strength of things 
Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome 
Of Heaven is as a law, inhabits thee ! 
And what wert thou, and earth, and stars, and sea, 
If to the human mind's imaginings 
Silence and solitude were vacancy ? 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 255 



LINES WRITTEN NEAR NAPLES. 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 

The waves are dancing fast and bright ; 
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 

The purple noon's transparent light ; 

The breath of the moist earth is light 
Around its unexpanded buds; 

Like many a voice of one delight, 
The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, 
The city's voice itself is soft, like solitude's. 

I see the deep's untrampled floor 

With green and purple sea- weeds strown ; 
I see the waves upon the shore, • 

Like light dissolved, in star-showers thrown; 

I sit upon the sands alone ; 
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 

Is flashing round me, and a tone 
Arises from its measured motion — 
How sweet ! did any heart now share in my emotion! 

Alas! I have nor hope, nor health, 

Nor peace within, nor calm around ; 
Nor that content, surpassing wealth, 

The sage in meditation found, 

And walked with inward glory crown'd ; 
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure — 

Others I see whom these surround — 
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; 
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 



256 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Yet now despair itself is mild, 

E'en as the winds and waters are ; 
I could lie down, like a tired child, 

And weep away the life of care 

"Which I have borne, and yet must bear, 
Till death, like sleep, might steal on me, 

And I might feel in the warm air 
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 

Some might lament that I were cold, 

As I, when this sweet day is gone, 
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, 

Insults with this untimely moan ; 

They might lament — for I am one 
Whom men love not, and yet regret ; 

Unlike this day, which, when the sun 
Shall on its stainless glory set, 
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy, in memory yet. 



DIRGE FOR THE YEAR. 

Orphan hours, the year is dead ! 

Come and sigh, come and weep ! 
Merry hours, smile instead, 

For the year is but asleep : 
See, it smiles as it is sleeping, 
Mocking your untimely weeping. 

As an earthquake rocks a corse 
In its coffin in the clay, 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 25 ? 

So white Winter, that rough nurse, 
Rocks the death-cold year to-day. 
Solemn hours, wail aloud 
For your mother in her shroud 1 

As the wild air stirs and sways 

The tree-swung cradle of a child, 
So the breath of these rude days 

Rocks the year ; — be calm and mild, 
Trembling hours, she will arise 
With new love within her eyes. 

January gray is here, 

Like a sexton by her grave; 
February bears the bier, 

March with grief doth howl and rave, 
And April weeps ; but O, ye hours ! 
Follow with May's fairest flowers. 



258 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 



Jtliria gorcrtfua Damans. 

1793—1835. 

Mks. Hemans, whose name stands foremost among 
the female poets of Britain, was a native of Liver- 
pool, the daughter of a merchant; and died in Dublin, 
while on a visit to her brother, at the age of forty- 
two. She was a woman of much loveliness of char- 
acter, amiable and retiring in her disposition, and 
unrepining at her lot, — though it was ever a toil- 
some, and often a dark one. Her marriage was 
extremely unhappy. She educated and supported 
her five sons by her own exertions ; and during a 
comparatively short life wrote more than fifty 
thousand lines. Her first publication was issued 
at the age of fifteen years. Among her larger 
works are, " The Forest Sanctuary," " The Sceptic," 
"Records of Women," and a tragedy entitled 
" The Yespers of Palermo." 



FELICIA DOROTHEA REMANS. 259 



THE AGONY IN THE GARDEN. 

He knelt, the Saviour knelt, and pray'd, 

"When but his Father's eye 
Look'd through the lonely garden shade 

On that dread agony. 
The Lord of all, above, beneath, 
Was bow'd with sorrow unto death. 

The sun set in a fearful hour, 

The stars might well grow dim, 
"When this mortality had power 

So to o'ershadow Him ! 
That He who gave man breath might know 
The very depths of human woe. 

He proved them all ! — the doubt, the strife, 

The faint perplexing dread ; 
The mists that hang o'er parting life 

All gather'd round His head. 
And the Deliv'rer knelt to pray, 
Yet pass'd it not, that cup, away ! 

It pass'd not, though the stormy wave 

Had sunk beneath His tread ; 
It pass'd not — though to Him the grave 

Had yielded up its dead. 
But there was sent Him from on high 
A gift of strength for man to die. 

And was the sinless thus beset 

"With anguish and dismay? 
How may we meet our conflict yet 

In the dark, narrow way ? 
Through Him ! through Him that path who trod I 
Save, or we perish, Son of God ! 



260 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath ; 
And stars to set — but all — 

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Death! 

Day is for mortal care, 

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth; 
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer, 

But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour, — 

Its feverish hours of mirth, and song, and wine; 
There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, 

A time for softer tears, — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 

May look like things too glorious for decay, 
And smile at thee ; but thou art not of those 

That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath ; 
And stars to set— but all — 

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

We know when moons shall wane, 

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, 
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain, 

But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? 

Is it when spring's first gale 

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? 
Is it when roses in our path grow pale ? 

They have one season — all are ours to die. 



FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 261 

Thou art where billows foam, 

Thou art where music melts upon the air, 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 
And the world calls us forth, and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest ; 
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 

The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath ; 
And stars to set — but all — 

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 



THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 

The stately Homes of England ! 

How beautiful they stand, 
Amid their tall ancestral trees, 

O'er all the pleasant land ! 
The deer across their greensward bound, 

Through shade and sunny gleam ; 
And the swan glides past them with the sound 

Of some rejoicing stream. 

The merry Homes of England ! 

Around their hearths by night, 
What gladsome looks of household love 

Meet in the ruddy light ! 



262 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

There woman's voice flows forth in song, 

Or childhood's tale is told ; 
Or lips move tunefully along 

Some glorious page of old. 

The blessed Homes of England! 

How softly on their bowers 
Is laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath hours. 
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 

Floats through their woods at morn ; 
All other sounds in that still time 

Of breeze and leaf are born. 

The cottage Homes of England ! 

By thousands on her plains, 
They 're smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 

And round the hamlet fanes. 
Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 

Each from its nook of leaves ; 
And fearless there the lowly sleep, 

As the bird beneath their eaves. 

The free fair Homes of England ! 

Long, long in hut and hall 
May hearts of native proof be rear'd 

To guard each hallow'd wall. 
And green forever be the groves, 

And bright the flowery sod, 
Where first the child's glad spirit loves 

Its country and its God. 



FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 263 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

The breaking waves dash'd high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast ; 

And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant-branches toss'd ; 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moor'd their bark 

On the wild New-England shore. 

Not as the conq'ror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame. 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amid the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea ; 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean eagle soar'd 

From his nest by the white waves' foam ; 
And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd— 

This was their welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amid that Pilgrim band ; 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land ? 



264 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow, serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

"What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine, 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? 

They sought a faith's pure shrine. 

Ay! call it holy ground, 

The soil where first- they trod ; 

They have left unstain'd what there they found- 
Freedom to worship God. 



TJIE SPELLS OF HOME. 

By the soft green light in the woody glade, 

On the banks of moss where thy childhood play'd ; 

By the household tree, through which thine eye 

First look'd in love to the summer sky ; 

By the dewy gleam, by the very breath 

Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath ; 

Upon thy heart there is laid a spell 

Holy and precious — O guard it well ! 

By the sleepy ripple of the stream, 
"Which hath lull'd thee into many a dream ; 
By the shiver of thy ivy-leaves 
To the wind of morn at thy casement-eaves ; 
By the bee's deep murmur in the limes, 
By the music of the Sabbath chimes ; 
By every sound of thy native shade, 
Stronger and dearer the spell is made. 



FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 265 

By the gathering round the winter hearth, 

"When twilight called unto household mirth ; 

By the fairy tale, or the legend old, 

In that ring of happy faces told ; 

By the quiet hour when hearts unite. 

In the parting prayer, and the kind "Good-night;" 

By the smiling eye, and the loving £pne, 

Over thy life has a spell heen thrown. 

And bless that gift!— it hath gentle might, 
A guardian power, and a guiding light; 
It hath led the freeman forth to stand 
In the mountain battles of his land ; 
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas, 
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze; 
And back to the gates of his father's hall 
It hath led the weeping prodigal. 

Yes ! when thy heart in its pride would stray 
From the pure first loves of its youth away ; 
When the sullying breath of the world would come 
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home ; 
Think thou again of the woody glade, 
And the sound by the rustling ivy made ; 
Think of the tree at thy father's door, 
And the kindly spell shall have power once more 
12 



266 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



THE VAUDOIS WIFE. 

Thy voice is in mine ear, beloved, 

Thy look is in my heart ; 
Thy bosom is my resting-place, 

And yet I must depart. 
Earth on my soul is strong — too strong — 

Too precious is its chain, 
All woven of thy love, dear friend, 

Yet vain — though mighty — vain. 

Thou see'st mine eye grow dim, beloved ; 

Thou see'st my life-blood flow ; 
Bow to the chastener silently, 

And calmly let me go ! 
A little while between our hearts 

The shadowy gulf must lie ; 
Yet have we for their communing, 

Still, still Eternity. 

Alas ! thy tears are on my cheek, 

My spirit they detain ; 
I know that from thine agony 

Is wrung that burniDg rain. 
Best, kindest, weep not ; — make the pang, 

The bitter conflict less ; 
O ! sad it is, and yet a joy, 

To feel thy love's excess. 

But calm thee ! let the thought of death 

A solemn peace restore ; 
The voice that must be silent soon 

"Would speak to thee once more ; 



FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 267 

That thou may'st bear its blessing on 

Through years of after life, 
A token of consoling love, 

E'en from this hour of strife. 

I bless thee for the noble heart, 

The tender, and the true, 
Where mine hath found the happiest rest 

That e'er fond woman's knew. 
I bless thee, faithful friend and guide, 

For my own, my treasured share, 
In the mournful secrets of thy soul, 

In thy sorrow, in thy prayer. 

I bless thee for kind looks and words 

Shower'd on my path like dew ; 
For all the love in those deep eyes 

A gladness ever new ; 
For the voice which ne'er to mine replied 

But in kindly tones of cheer ; 
For every spring of happiness 

My sold hath tasted here. 

I bless thee for the last rich boon 

"Won from affection tried — 
The right to gaze on death with thee, 

To perish by thy side. 
And yet more for the glorious hope 

E'en to these moments given — 
Did not thy spirit ever lift 

The trust of mine to Heaven ? 

Now be thou strong : ! knew we not 

Our path must lead to this? 
A shadow and a trembling still 

Were mingled with our bliss. 



268 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. # 

"We plighted our young hearts when storms 

"Were dark upon the sky, 
In full deep knowledge of their task 

To suffer and to die. 

Be strong ! I leave the living voice 

Of this my martyr'd "blood, 
"With the thousand echoes of the hills, 

"With the torrent's foaming flood ; 
A spirit mid the oaves to dwell, 

A token on the air, 
To rouse the valiant from repose, 

The fainting from despair. 

Hear it, and bear thou on, my love ; 

Ay, joyously endure! 
Our mountains must he altars yet, 

Inviolate and pure. 
There must our God be worshipp'd still, 

"With the worship of the free. 
Farewell ! there 's but one pang in death — 

One only — leaving thee ! 



HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS. 

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our Father's God! 
Thou hast made thy children mighty 

By the touch of the mountain sod. 
Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge 

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod. 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our father's God! 



FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 269 

We are watchers of a beacon 

Whose light must never die ; 
We are guardians of an altar 

'Midst the silence of the sky ; 
The rocks yield founts of coin-age, 

Struck forth as by thy rod; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God. 

For the dark resounding caverns, 
Where thy still small voice is heard ; 

For the strong pines of the forest 
■ That by thy breath are stirred ; 

For the storms on whose free pinions 
Thy spirit walks abroad, 

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 
Our God, our fathers' God. 

The royal eagle darteth 

On his quarry from the heights, 
And the stag that knows no master 

Seeks there his wild delights ; 
But we, for thy communion, 

Have sought the mountain sod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God. 

The banner of the chieftain 

Far, far below us waves ; 
The war-horse of the spearman 

Cannot reach our lofty caves. 
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold 

Of Freedom's last abode ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God. 



270 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

For the shadow of thy presence 

Bound our camp of rock outspread ; 
For the stern defiles of battle 

Bearing record of our dead ; 
For the snows and for the torrents, 

For the free heart's burial sod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God. 



A D I R G E. 



Calm on the bosom of thy God, 
Young spirit, rest thee now ! 

E'en while with us thy footsteps trod, 
His soul was on thy brow. 

Dust to its narrow house beneath, 

Soul to its place on high ; 
They that have seen thy look in death 

No more may fear to die. 

Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers, 
Whence thy meek smile is gone ; 

But O ! a brighter home than ours, 
In heaven, is now thine own. 



THINGS THAT CHANGE. 

Know'st thou that seas are sweeping 
Where cities once have been ? 

Where the calm wave is sleeping, 
Their towers may yet be seen. 



FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 271 

Far down below the glassy tide 

Man's dwellings, where his voice hath died ! 

Know'st thou that flocks are feeding 

Above the tombs of old, 
Which kings, their armies leading, 

Have linger'd to behold ? 
A short smooth greensward, o'er them spread, 
Is all that marks where heroes bled. 

Rnow'st thou that now the token, 

Of temples, once renown'd, 
Is but a pillar broken, 

"With grass and wall-flowers crown'd ; 
And the lone serpent rears her young 
Where the triumphant lyre hath sung? 

Well, well I know the story 

Of ages pass'd away ; 
And the mournful wrecks that glory 

Has left to dull decay. 
But thou hast yet a tale to learn, 
More full of warnings, sad and stern. 

Thy pensive eye but ranges 

O'er ruin'd fane and hall ; 
O ! the deep soul has changes 

More sorrowful than all. 
Talk not, while these before thee throng, 
Of silence in the place of song. 

See scorn — where love has perish'd ; 

Distrust — where friendship grew ; 
Pride — where once nature cherish'd 

All tender thoughts and true ; 
And shadows of oblivion thrown 
O'er every trace of idols gone. 



2*72 SELECTIONS FKOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

"Weep not for tombs far scatter'd, 

For temples prostrate laid ; 
In thine own heart lie scatter'd 

The altars it hath made. 
Go sound its depths in doubt and fear! 
Heap up no more its treasures here ! 



A FATHER -READING THE BIBLE. 

'T was early day, and sunlight stream'd 

Soft through a quiet room, 
That hush'd, but not forsaken seem'd; 

Still, but with naught of gloom. 
For there serene, in happy age, 

Whose hope is from above, 
A father communed with the page 

Of Heaven's recorded love. 

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, 

On his gray holy hair ; 
And touched the page with tenderest light, 

As if its shrine were there ! 
But ! that patriarch's aspect shone 

With something lovelier far ; 
A radiance all the spirit's own, 

Caught not from sun or star. 

Some word of life e'en then had met 

His calm benignant eye; 
Some ancient promise, breathing yet 

Of immortality ! 



FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 2*73 

Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow 

Of quenchless faith survives ; 
For every feature said, I know 

That my Redeemer lives. 

And silent stood his children by, 

Hushing their very breath, 
Before the solemn sanctity 

Of thoughts o'ersweeping death. 
Silent — yet did not each young breast 

With love and rev'rence melt ; 
O blest be those fair girls, and blest 

That home where God is felt ! 



THE BETTER LAND. 

I hear thee speak of the better land, 
Thou call'st its children a happy band, 
Mother ! O where is that radiant shore? — 
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? 
Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle bowers ? 
" Not there — not there, my child ! " 

Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? 
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, 
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze ; 
And strange bright birds, on their starry wings, 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ? 
" Not there — not there, my child ! " 
12* 



'2 1 4 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Is it far away in some region old, 
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ; 
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
And the diamond lights up the secret mine ; 
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand,- 
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land? 
" Not there — not there, my chUd. 

"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! 
Ear hath not heard its deep sounds of joy; 
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair, 
Sorrow and death may not enter there ; 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, 
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, — 
It is there — it is there, my child ! " 



THE ANGELS' CALL. 

" Hark ! they whisper : angels say, 
Sister spirit I come away ! " 

Come to the land of peace ! 
Oome where the tempest hath no longer sway, 
The shadow passes from the soul away, 

The sounds of weeping cease ! 

Fear hath no dwelling there ! 
Oome to the mingling of repose and love, 
Breath' d by the silent spirit of the dove, 

Through the celestial air! 






FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 275 

Come to the bright, and blest, 
And crown'd forever ! — 'midst that shining band, 
Gathered to Heaven's own wreath from every land, 

Thy spirit shall find rest ! 

Thon hast been long alone : 
Come to thy mother! — on the Sabbath shore, 
The heart that rock'd thy childhood, back once more 

Shall take its wearied one. 

In silence wert thou left ! 
Come to thy sisters ! — joyously again 
All the home-voices, blest, in one sweet strain, 

Shall greet their long-bereft. 

Over thine orphan head 
The storm hath swept as o'er a willow's bough ; 
Come to thy Father! — it is finish'd now: 

Thy tears have all been shed. 

In thy divine abode 
Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace, 
And O, bright victory! — death by love no place! 

Come, spirit! to thy God! 



THE RHINE. 



It is the Ehine ! our mountain vineyards laving ; 

I see the bright flood shine; 
Sing on the march with every banner waving, 

Sing, brothers ! 't is the Rhine ! 



276 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

The Rhine ! the Rhine ! our own imperial river ! 

Be glory on thy track ! 
"We left thy shores, to die or to deliver ; 

"We bear thee Freedom back. 

Hail ! hail ! my childhood knew thy rush of water, 

E'en as a mother's song ; 
That sound went past me on the field of slaughter, 

And heart and arm grew strong. 

Roll proudly on ! brave blood is with thee sweeping, 

Pour'd out by sons of thine, 
When sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping, 

Like thee, victorious Rhine ! 

Home ! home ! thy glad wave hath a tone of greeting,- 

Thy path is by my home ; 
E'en now my children count the hours till meeting. 

ransom'd ones, I come ! 

Go, tell the seas that chain shall bind thee never ; 

Sound on, by hearth and shrine ! 
Sing through the hills that thou art free forever ! 

Lift up thy voice, O Rhine ! 



THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS. 

The voices of two forest boys, 

In years when hearts entwine, 
Had filled with childhood's merry noise 

A valley of the Rhine. 
To rock and stream that sound was known 
Gladsome as hunter's bugle-tone. 



FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 211 

The sunny laughter of their eyes 

There had each vineyard seen; 
Up every cliff whence eagles rise 

Then bounding step had been ; 
Aye ! their bright youth a glory threw 
O'er the wild place wherein they grew. 

But this, as day-spring's flush, was brief 

As early bloom or dew ; — 
Alas ! 't is but the wither'd leaf 

That wears th' enduring hue ! 
Those rocks along the Ehine's fair shore 
Might girdle in their world no more. 

For now on manhood's verge they stood, 

And heard life's thrilling call, 
As if a silver clarion woo'd 

To some high festival ; 
And parted, as young brothers part, 
With love in each unsullied heart. 

They parted — soon the paths divide 

Wherein our steps were one, 
Like river-branches, far and wide, 

Dissevering as they run, 
And making strangers, in their course, 
Of waves that had the same bright source. 

Met they no more? Once more they met, 

Those kindred hearts and true! 
'T was on a field of death, where yet 

The battle-thunders flew, 
Though the fierce day was well-nigh past, 
And the red sunset smiled its last. 



218 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

But as the combat closed they found 

For tender thoughts a space, 
And e'en upon that bloody ground 

Room for one brief embrace, 
And pour'd forth, on each other's neck, 
Such tears as warriors need not check. 

The mists o'er boyhood's memory spread 

All melted with those tears ; 
The faces of the holy dead 

Rose as in vanish'd years ! 
The Rhine, the Rhine, the ever bless'd, 
Lifted its voice in each full breast ! 

O ! was it then a time to die ? 

It was ! that not in vain 
The soul of childhood's purity 

And peace might tm-n again. 
A ball swept forth — 't was guided well — 
Heart unto heart, those brothers fell ! 

Happy, yes, happy thus they go ! 

Bearing from earth away 
Affections, gifted ne'er to know 

A shadow — a decay — 
A passing touch of change or chill — 
A breath of aught whose breath can kill. 

And they, between whose sever'd souls, 

Once in close union tied, 
A gulf is set, a current rolls 

Forever to divide — 
"Well may they envy such a lot 
"Whose hearts yearn on — but mingle not. 



JOHN KEATS. 279 



f ajnt |Uats + 



1796—1820. 

Keats was the son of a livery-stable keeper, in 
London. His father designed educating him as a 
surgeon. Froni his youth he was an ardent 
scholar, and much was anticipated from his genius 
and application ; but he died at Rome, of consump- 
tion, at the age of twenty-four. 



TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My senses, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains, 

One minute past, and Lethe-ward had sunk. 
'T is not through envy of thy happy lot, 

But being too happy in thine happiness, 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 

In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 

Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 



280 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

for a draught of vintage ! that hath been 
Oooled a long age in the deep-delved earth ! 

— That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 

And with thee fade away, into the forest dim ; 
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known — 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret. 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan, 
"Where palsy shakes a few sad, last gray hairs ; 

Where youth grows thin, and spectre-thin, and dies ; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow, 

And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 

Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards. 
Already with thee ! tender is the night, 

And haply the Queen-moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry fays ; 

But here there is no light, 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 

Through verd'rous glooms, and winding mossy ways. 

1 cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild : 

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves : 

And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 

The murm'rous haunt of flies on summer eves. 



JOHN KEATS. • 281 

Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death — 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 

To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 

In such an ecstasy ! 
Still would'st thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 

To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien, corn ; 

The same that oft-times hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 

Of perilous seas, in fairy-lands forlorn. 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 

Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side, and now 'tis buried deep 

In the next valley glades. 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 

Fled is that music. — Do I wake or sleep? 



282 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



|jUkrt f 0ltoL 



1798—1827. 

The Rev. Robert Pollok was a native of Muir- 
house, parish of Eaglesham, in Scotland, and was 
born on the 19th of October, 1798. He was the 
son of a farmer, a man of worth and intelligence. 
At the age of fifteen he commenced his studies, in 
view of entering the ministry; and received his 
diploma at the University of Glasgow, in 1820, and 
in 1827 was licensed to preach by the " United 
Secession Presbytery" of Edinburgh. His first 
public effort is said to have been a grand and elo- 
quent discourse, and produced an awful impression 
on his audience. But the exertion was too great 
for his feeble health, already impaired by close 
and severe study. He preached but three times 
afterward. 

Consumption, ever lurking near the path of ge- 
nius, had singled out its victim, and he who gave 
such high promise of the future was to be taken 
from those who loved him to the cold embrace of 
the icy-hearted monster — snatched away amid the 
bloom and beauty of life, from the golden visions of 
a sun-gilded morrow, to lie down in the darkened , 



ROBERT POLLOK. 283 

solitude of the lonely tomb. Following the advice 
of his medical friends, he set out for Italy, but was 
taken ill near Southampton, and after a few days of 
suffering the lamp of earthly existence which had 
long been flickering, was "blown out," and the 
spirit, purified and washed by the blood of the 
Redeemer, ascended to the heaven from whence it 
came. 

Mr. Pollok was an untiring and faithful student. 
His " Course of Time," concerning the literary and 
poetical merits of which there are various opinions, 
was mostly written during the period of his 
college life. His literary attainments were not 
bounded by the limits of school education, but his 
knowledge was extensive and varied. At the time 
of his death he had in view the production of a 
prose work, which would doubtless have been 
valuable ; but many hopes of usefulness and plea- 
sure lie buried in the grave, ■ and the tomb has 
crushed beneath its clods many a lofty aspiration. 
Though Pollok can never rank with the first class 
of poets, the strongly religious character of his 
writings will always make them popular. 



284 SELECTIONS FKOM THE BRITISH POETS. 



PERDITION. 

Wide was the place, 
And deep as wide, and ruinous as deep. 
Beneath, I saw a lake of burning fire, 
With tempest tost perpetually, and still 
The waves of fiery darkness 'gainst the rocks 
Of dark damnation broke, and music made 
Of melancholy sort ; and over head, 
And all around, wind warred with wind, storm howled 
To storm, and lightning, forked lightning cross'd, 
And thunder answered thunder, muttering sounds 
Of sullen wrath ; and far as sight could pierce, 
Or down descend in caves of hopeless depth, 
Through all that dungeon of unfading fire, 
I saw most miserable beings walk, 
Burning continually, yet unconsumed ; 
Forever wasting, yet enduring still ; 
Dying perpetually, yet never dead. 
Some wandered lonely in the desert flames, 
And some in fell encounter fiercely met. 
With curses loud, and blasphemies that made 
The cheek of darkness pale ; and as they fought, 
And cursed, and gnashed their teeth, and wished to die, 
Their hollow eyes did utter streams of woe. 
And there were groans that ended not, and sighs 
That always sighed, and tears that ever wept, 
And ever fell, but not in Mercy's sight. 

And to their everlasting anguish still 

The thunders from above, responding, spoke 

These words, which through the caverns of perdition 

Forlornly echoing, fell on every ear : 

" Ye knew your duty, but ye did it not." 



ROBERT POLLOK. 285 



THE HYPOCRITE. 

He was a man 
Who stole the livery of the court of heaven 
To serve the devil in; in Virtue's guise, 
Devoured the widow's house and orphan's bread ; 
In holy phrase, transacted villanies 
That common sinners durst not meddle with ; 
At sacred feasts he sat among the saints, 
And with his guilty hands touched holiest things; 
And none of sin lamented more, or sighed 
More deeply, or with graver countenance, 
Or longer prayed, wept o'er the dying man 
Whose infant children at the moment he 
Planned how to rob. In sermon-style he bought, 
And sold, and lied ; and salutations made 
In Scripture terms. He prayed by quantity, 
And with his repetitions long and loud 
All knees were weary. With one hand, he put 
A penny in the urn of poverty, 
And with the other took a shilling out. 
On charitable lists, — those trumps, which told 
The public ear who had, in secret, done 
The poor a benefit, and half the alms 
They told of took themselves to keep them sounding,- 
He blazed his name, more pleased to have it there 
Than in the book of life. Seest thou the man ? 
A serpent with an angel's voice ! a grave 
With flowers bestrewed ! and yet few were deceived : 
His virtues being over-done, his face 
Too grave, his prayers too long, his charities 



SELECTIONS FBOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Too pompously attended, and his speech 
Larded too frequently, and out of time. 
With serious phraseology, — were rents 
That in his garments opened in spite of him. 
Through -which the "well-aeeustoined eye could see 
The rottenness of his heart. Xone deeper blush'd, 
As in the all-piercing light he stood, exposed. 
Xo longer herding "with the holy ones : 
Yet still he bcied to bring his cotmtenance 
To sanctimonious seeming : but, meanwhile, 

a shame "within, now visible to all. 
His purpose balked. The righteous smiled, and e'en 

- air itself some signs of laughter g 
As ineffectually he s : wipe 

His brow, that inward guiltiness denied. 

J 1 : all the reprobate, 
N ;:.e seem'd maturer for the flames of hell, 
^Vhere still his face, from ancient custom, wears 
A holy air. which says to all that pass 
Him by. "I "was a hypocrite on earth." 



SLANDER. 



Slander ! the fotdest whelp of sin : the man 
In "whom this spirit entered -was undone. 
His tongue "was set on fire of helL his heart 
Was black as death, his legs were faint "with haste 
To propagate the He his soul had framed : 
His pillow was the peace of fan: - 
Destroyed, the sigh of innocence reproached, 
Broken friendships, and the strife of brotherhoods; 



ROBERT POLLOK. 5 

Yet did he spare his sleep, and hear the clock 
dumber the midnight watches, on his bed 
Devising mischief more, and early rose. 
And made most hellish meals fg id men's :.. 
From door to door you might have seen him speed. 
Or placed amid a gronp of gaping ftx Is, 
And whispering in thf - i:h his foul lips. 

Peace lied the neighbourhood in which he made 
His haunts : and, like a mortal pestilence. 
Before his breath the healthy s! fcs - blooms. 
1 happiness deeay'd. 
* * * 

The pruden: siumn'd him and his 1. a 
As one who had a deadfe 

And fain shunned him at the day 

Of judgment; 1 Allwh g 

AVith greediness, or wittingly their I [rues 
Made herald to his lies I him wailed : 

"While on his face, thrown injured men. 

In cha: - ever-brashing shame. 

- .nd slanders, all his own. 



THE FALSE PRIEST. 

Among 

In vain from Gar - - - rage. 

And from the hoi lis sure of the Lamb. 
Most wretched, most contemptible, most i 
Stood the :'. - . and in his 

- _ • of the undying "Worm. 
And so he might, for he had on his hi 
The blood of souls, that would not wipe away. 



288 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Hear what he was : — He swore in sight of God 
And man to preach his master, Jesus Christ ; 
Yet preach'd himself: he swore that love of souls 
Alone had drawn him to the Church ; yet strewed 
The path that led to hell with tempting flowers, 
And in the ear of sinners as they took 
The way of death, he whispered, "Peace:" he swore 
Away all love of lucre, all desire, 
Of earthly pomp. 

His prophecies 
He swore were from the Lord, and yet taught lies 
For gain ; with quackish ointment healed the wounds 
And bruises of the soul outside, but left 
Within the pestilent matter unobserv'd, 
To sap the moral constitution quite, 
And soon to burst again, incurable. 
He with untemper'd mortar daub'd the walls 
Of Zion, saying, "Peace," when there was none. 
The man who came with thirsty soul to hear . 
Of Jesus, went away unsatisfied ; 
For he another Gospel preached than Paul, 
And one that had no Saviour in't. And yet 
His life was worse. Faith, charity, and love, 
Humility, forgiveness, holiness, 
"Were words well-lettered in his Sabbath-creed ; 
But with his life he wrote as plain : Revenge, 
Pride, tyranny, and lust of wealth and power 
Inordinate, and lewdness unashamed. 
He was a wolf in clothing of the lamb, 
That stole into the fold of God, and on 
The blood of souls, which he did sell to death, 
Grew fat, and yet when any woidd have turned 
Him out, he cried : — " Touch not the priest of God." 
And that he was anointed, fools believed ; 
But knew that day he was the devil's priest ; 



ROBERT POLLOK. 289 

Anointed by the hands of Sin and Death, 
And set peculiarly apart to ill, 
"While on him smoked the vials of perdition, 
Poured measureless. 



THE CRITIC. 



The critics — some, but few — 
Were worthy men, and earned renown which had 
Immortal roots ; but most, were weak and vile. 
And as a cloudy swarm of summer flies, 
With angry hum, and slender lance, beset 
The sides of some huge animal, so did 
They buzz about the illustrious man, and fain 
With his immortal honour down the stream 
Of fame would have descended ; but alas ! 
The hand of Time drove them away ; they were, 
Indeed, a simple race of men, who had 
One only art, which taught them still to say,— 
Whate'er was done might have been better done : 
And with this art, not ill to learn, they made 
A shift to live. 



SORROW AND CHANGE. 

'T was pitiful to see the early flower 
Nipped by the unfeeling frost, just when it rose, 
Lovely in youth, and put its beauties on. 
'Twas pitiful to see the hopes of all 
The year, the yellow harvest, made a heap 
13 



290 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

By rains of judgment : or by torrents swept, 
With flocks and cattle, down the raging flood ; 
Or scattered by the winnowing winds, that bore 
Upon their angry wings the wrath of Heaven. 
Sad was the field, where yesterday was heard 
The roar of war ; and sad the sight of maid, 
Of mother, widow, sister, daughter, wife, 
Stooping and weeping over senseless, cold, 
Defaced, and mangled lumps of breathless earth, 
Which had been husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, 
And lovers, when that morning's sun arose. 

'Twas sad to see the wonted seat of friend 
Eemo'ved by death ; and sad to visit scenes, 
When old, where, in the smiling morn of life, 
Lived many who both knew and loved us much, 
And they all gone, dead, or dispersed abroad ; 
And stranger faces seen among their hills. 

'Twas sad to see the little orphan babe 
Weeping and sobbing on its mother's grave. 
'T was pitiful to see an old, forlorn, 
Decrepit, wither'd wretch, unhoused, unclad, 
Starving to death with poverty and cold. 
'T was pitiful to see a blooming bride, 
That promise gave of many a happy year, 
Touched by decay, turn pale, and waste, and die. 
'Twas pitiful to hear the murderous thrust 
Of ruffian's blade that sought the life entire. 
'T was sad to hear the blood come gurgling forth 
From out the throat of the wild suicide. 

Sad was the sight of widow'd, childless age 
Weeping. I saw it once. Wrinkled with time, 
And hoary with the dust of years, an old 
And worthy man came to his humble roof. 



ROBERT POLLOK. 291 

Tottering and slow, and on the threshold stood. 

No foot, no voice was heard within ; none came 

To meet him, where he oft had met a wife, 

And sons, and daughters, glad at his return ; 

None came to meet him ; for that day had seen 

The old man lay within the narrow house, 

The last of all his family; and now 

He stood in solitude — in solitude 

"Wide as the world ! for all that made to him 

Society had fled beyond its hounds. 

Wherever strayed his aimless eye, there lay 

The Avreck of some fond hope, that touched his soul 

With bitter thoughts, and told him all was past. 

His lonely cot was silent, and he looked 

As if he could not enter; on his staff, 

Bending, he leaned ; and from his weary eye, 

Distressing sight ! a single tear-drop wept : 

None followed, for the fount of tears was dry ; 

Alone and last it fell from wrinkle down 

To wrinkle, till it lost itself, drunk by 

The withered cheek, on which again no smile 

Should come, or drop of tenderness be seen. 

All these were sad, and thousands more, that sleep 

Forgotten beneath the funeral pall of Time ; 

And bards, as well became, bewailed them much, 

With doleful instruments of weeping song. 

But what were these ? what might be worse, had in 't, 

However small, somo grains of happiness ; 

And man ne'er drank a cup of earthly sort 

That might not hold another drop of gall. 

Or, in his deepest sorrow, laid his head 

Upon a pillow, set so close with thorns, 

That might not hold another prickle still. 



292 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 



1802—1838. 

Miss Landon was a native of Chelsea, England. 
Her father, who was in the army, died during her 
childhood, leaving a large family in poverty and 
need. The young poetess wrote to aid her mother 
in supporting them. Her writings were favour- 
ably received, though the greater part of her poetry 
was hastily written from necessity. At the age of 
thirty-six she was married to Captain Maclean, 
governor of Cape Coast Castle, Africa, whither she 
went, but died not long after her arrival. She was 
found lying dead upon the floor, having taken, as 
was supposed, an over-dose of prussic acid, which 
she was in the habit of using for hysterical spasms, 
from which she was a sufferer. Her natural dis- 
position was gay and cheerful, though severely 
tried by the insinuations of suspicion or malice 
which were heaped upon her. Her principal works 
are, "The Improvisatrice," "The Yenetian Brace- 
let," "The Yowof the Peacock," and "The Golden 
Violet," with many shorter poems. 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 293 



TO THE SNOW-DROP. 

Thou beautiful new comer, 

With white and maiden brow ; 
Thou fairy gift from summer, 

"Why art thou blooming now ? 
This dim and shelter'd alley 

Is dark with winter green ; 
Not such as in the valley 

At sweet spring-time are seen. 

The lirne-tree's tender yellow, 

The aspen's silvery sheen, 
With mingling colours mellow 

The universal green. 
Now solemn yews are bending 

'Mid gloomy firs around ; 
And in long, dark wreaths descending, 

The ivy sweeps the ground. 

No sweet companion pledges 

Thy health as dew-drops pass; 
No rose is on the hedges, 

No violet in the grass. 
Thou art watching, and thou only, 

Above the earth's snow-tomb, — 
Thus lovely, and thus lonely, 

I bless thee for thy bloom. 

Though the singing rill be frozen, 
While the wind forsakes the west ; 

Though the singing birds have chosen 
Some lone and silent rest ; 



294 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Like tliee, one sweet thought lingers 
In a heart else cold and dead ; 

Though the summer flowers, and singers, 
And sunshine, long have fled. 

'Tis the love for long years cherish'd, 

Yet ling'ring lorn and lone; 
Though its lovelier lights have perish'd, 

And its earlier hopes are flown. 
Though a weary world hath bound it 

With many a heavy thrall, 
And the cold and changed surround it, 

It blossometh o'er all. 



THE FORGOTTEN ONE. 

No shadow rests upon the place 
Where once thy footsteps roved, 

Nor leaf nor blossom bears a trace 
Of how thou wert beloved. 

The very night-dew disappears 

Too soon, as if it spread its tears. 

Thou art forgotten ! thou whose feet 

Were listen'd for like song ! 
They used to call thy voice so sweet, 

It did not haunt them long. 
Thou, with thy fond and fairy inirth, 
How could they bear their lonely hearth? 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 295 

There is no picture to recall 

Thy glad and open brow ; 
jSTo profiled outline on the wall 

Seems like thy shadow now. 
They have not even kept to wear 
One ringlet of thy golden hair. 

"When here we shelter'd last, appears 

But just like yesterday ; 
It startles me to think that years 

Since then have pass'd away. 
The old oak-tree that was our tent, 
No leaf seems changed, no bough seems rent. 

A shower in June, a summer shower, 

Drove us beneath the shade ; 
A beautiful and green- wood bower 

The spreading branches made. 
The rain-drops shine upon the bough, 
The passing rain — but where art thou ? 

But I forget how many showers 

Have wash'd this old oak-tree ; 
The winter and the summer hours - 

Since I stood here with thee. 
And I forget — how chance a thought 
Thy memory to my heart has brought. 

I talk of friends who once have wept 

As if they still should weep ; 
I speak of grief that long has slept 

As if it could not sleep. 
I mourn o'er cold forgetfulness, 
Have I myself forgotten less ? 



296 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

I 've mingled with the young and fair, 
Nor thought how there was laid, 

One fair and young as any there, 
In silence and in shade. 

How could I see a sweet mouth shine 

With smiles, and not remember thine ? 

Ah ! it is well we can forget, 

For who could linger on, 
Beneath a sky whose stars are set, 

On earth, whose flowers are gone ? 
Or who could welcome loved ones near, 
Thinking of those once far more dear ? 

Our early friends — those of our youth! 

"We cannot feel again 
The earnest love, the simple truth, 

Which made us such friends then ; 
We grow suspicious, careless, cold ; 
We love not as we loved of old. 

No more a sweet necessity, 
Love must and will expand ; 

Loved and heloving we must be, 
With open heart and hand — 

Which only ask to trust and share 

The deep affections which they bear. 

Our love was of that early time, 

And, now that it is past, 
It breathes as of a purer clime 

Than where my lot is cast. 
My eyes fill with their sweetest tears 
In thinking of those early years. 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 297 

It shock'd me first to see the sun' 

Shine gladly o'er thy tomb; 
To see the -wild flowers o'er it run 

In such luxuriant bloom. 
Now I feel glad that they should keep 
A bright sweet watch above thy sleep. 



DEATH. 

It is most sad to watch the fall 
Of autumn leaves — but worst of all 
It is to watch the flower of spring 
Faded in its fresh blossoming ! 
To see the once so clear blue orb 

Its summer fight and warmth forget ; 
Darkening beneath its tearful lid 

Like a rain-beaten violet ! 
To watch the banner-rose of health 

Pass from the cheek! — to mark how plain 
Upon the wan and sunken brow 

Become the wanderings of each vein ! 
The shadowy hand, so thin, so pale ! 

The languid step! the drooping head! — 
The long wreaths of neglected hair ! 

The lip whence red and smile have fled ! 
And* having watched thus, day by day, 
Light, fife, and colour pass away, 
To see, at length, the glassy eye 
Fix dull in dead mortality ; 
Mark the last ray, catch the last breath, 
Till the grave sets its sign of death ! 

From " TnE LMPnovisATmcE." 
13* 



298 SELECTIONS FKOM THE BRITISH POETS. 



THE OFFERING. 

I see them fading round me, 

The beautiful, the bright, 
As the rose-red lights that darken 

At the falling of the night. 

I had a lute, whose music 

Made sweet the summer wind ; 

But the broken strings have vanish'd, 
And no song remains behind. 

I had a lovely garden, 

Fruits and flowers on every bough ; 
But the frosts came too severely — 

'T is decay'd and blighted now. 

That lute is like my spirits, — 

They have lost their buoyant tone ; 

Orush'd and shatter'd, they 've forgotten 
The glad notes once their own. 

And my mind is like that garden, — 

It has spent its early store ; 
And wearied and exhausted, 

It has no strength for more. 

I will look on them as warnings 
Sent less in wrath than love ; 

To call the being homeward 
To its other home above. 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 299 

As the Lesbian, in false worship, 

Hung her harp upon the shrine, 
"When the world lost its attraction, 

So will I offer mine ; 

But in another spirit, 

"With a higher hope and aim ; 
And in a holier temple, 

And to a holier name. 

I offer up affections, 

Void, violent, and vain ; 
I offer years of sorrow 

Of the mind and body's pain : 

I offer up my memory, 

'T is a drear and darken'd page, 
"Where experience has been bitter, 

And whose youth has been like age. 

I offer hopes whose folly 

Only after-thought can know ; 
For, instead of seeking heaven, 

They were chain'd to earth below. 

Saying, Wrong and Grief have brought me 

To Thy altar as a home ; 
I am sad and broken-hearted, 

And therefore am I come. 

Let the incense of my sorrow 

Be on high a sacrifice ; 
The worn and contrite spirit 

Thou alone would not despise ! 



300 SELECTION'S FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



THE STRUGGLES OF LIFE. 

Few know of life's beginnings — men behold 

The goal achieved, — the warrior when his sword 

Flashes red triumph in the noonday sun ; 

The poet, when his lyre hangs on the palm ; 

The statesman, when the crowd proclaim his voice, 

And mould opinion on his gifted tongue ; 

They count not life's first steps, and never think 

Upon the many miserable hours 

"When hope deferred was sickness to the heart. 

They reckon not the battle and the march, 

The long privations of a wasted youth ; 

They never saw the banner till unfurl'd. 

"What are to them the solitary nights, 

Pass'd pale and anxious by the sickly lamp, 

Till the young poet wins the world at last 

To listen to the music long his own ? 

The crowd attend the statesman's fiery mind 

That makes their destiny ; — but they do not trace 

Its struggles, or its long expectancy. 

Hard are life's early steps ; and, but that youth 

Is buoyant, confident, and strong in hope, 

Men would behold its threshold, and despair. 



MARY ANNE BROWNE. 301 



Utarjj %mu ^ratottt 

1812—1844. 

Miss Browne (afterward married to James Gray, 
Esq., a nephew of the Ettrick Shepherd) was horn 
in Berkshire, England. She began to write at a 
very early age, and issued her first volume when 
but fifteen years old. She died in Ireland, in 
1844. Her works have been published in four or 
five volumes. 



THE FORGOTTEN ONE. 

They have forgotten thee ! and yet 

How beautiful wert thou — 
The light of holiness seem'd set 

Upon thy lovely brow — 
And ever, 'neath thy soft dark eye, 
Affection's fountain seem'd to lie. 

They saw thee fading in thy youth, 
And shrunk with mournful fears, 

Dreading to look upon the truth — 
Thinking thereon with tears — 

Hoping, when hope was wild and vain. 

A sad relief from present pain. 



502 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

I stood with them beside the bed 
Where lay thy mortal frame ; 

And O I what bitter tears we shed, 
Murm'ring thy sainted name. 

Link'd to expressions fond and dear, 

"Which thou in life had'st loved to hear. 

Yes, in that chamber's solemn gloom 
"What idle vows were made ! 

Methought their anguish for thy doom 
Could nevermore be stay'd. 

It seem'd as if all happy glee 

Had from their dwelling pass'd with thee. 

But this is changed — a few short years 
And thou art with the past ; 

Thy name unseals no source of tears, 
And scarce a shade is cast 

"When thou art mention'd, by some chance, 

On the light tome, or mirthful glance. 

They used to go, as pilgrims oft, 

To weep beside thy grave ; 
Now may the summer dews fall soft, 

Or wintry tempests rave, 
Yet no familiar foot hath press'd 
The turf of thy lone place of rest. 

They would not own thy lessen'd power, 

And yet a fallen star, 
A perish'd bird, a last year's flower, 

As much remember'd are; 
E'en he whose heart seem'd wholly thine 
Is kneeling at another's shrine. 



MARY ANNE BROWNE. 303 

I look upon the silken hair 

I treasure for thy sake, 
And wonder others do not share 

The thoughts it can awake. 
Strange that I keep thy mem'ry yet, 
"When nearer friends can so forget. 



SHE WAS NOT MADE POR HAPPINESS. 

She was not made for happiness — her eyes 

Were all too soft and deep ; 
Shade 'midst their radiance, as in lovely skies, 

Of April when they weep. 
Yet when she spake with earnest eloquence, 

The soul beneath them burn'd, 
As if her thoughts, concentred and intense, 

Them into stars had turn'd. 

She was not made for happiness — her brow 

Had hues of early thought 
Traced e'en in childhood's sunny time, and now 

Still daily deeper wrought ; 
And her sweet lips, they were not chisell'd forms 

Such as the sculptor knows ; 
The quivering smile, that saddens while it warms, 

Hung o'er their rose. 

She was not made for happiness — too much 

She felt for others' woe ; 
What to another heart was but a touch, 

Her's felt a cruel blow. 
No tale of suffering, sorrow, or disease, 

But found an echo there — 
A wounded bird, a broken flower, e'en these 

Her sympathy might share. 



304 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

She was not made for happiness — and yet 
N Too much of ours she made. 
With what unmingled anguish and regret 

"We saw her droop and fade ! 
Suffering had seem'd her birthright dower, 

Years of sad pain went o'er, 
And yet we loved our frail and feeble flower 

Even for this the more. 

But standing by her dying bed, we felt 

A better prospect dawn; 
A mist around her spirit seemed to melt, 

A curtain seemed withdrawn ; 
Bright, happy glances from her eyes were sent 

Up through the summer sky. 
Ah! now she knew her own true element, 

The better world on high. 

And hopefully she spake, and happily, 

Of communings with God ; 
Of light and glory that we could not see 

Upon the path she trod. 
A setting sunbeam from her cloudy lot 

At length broke lightly forth — 
O ! she was made for happiness, — but not 

The happiness of earth ! 



CAROLINE SOUTHEY. 305 



This lady was the second wife of the poet, the 
author of many beautiful poems, and is a person 
of rare excellence and amiability of character. The 
following extract from a letter, written by her to 
Mrs. Sigourney, alluding to the state of her afflicted 
but still beloved husband, is better than a world 
of praise and honour : — 

"You desire to be remembered to him who 
sang of 'Thalaba, the wild and wondrous tale.' 
Alas ! my friend, the dull cold ear of death is not 
more insensible than his, my dearest husband's, to 
all communication from the world without. Scarce- 
ly can I keep hold of the last poor comfort of be- 
lieving that he still knows me. This almost com- 
plete unconsciousness has not been of more than 
six months' standing, though more than two years 
have elapsed since he has written even his own 
name. After the death of his first wife, the 'Edith' 
of his first love, who was for several years insane, 
his health was terribly shaken. Yet, for the greater 
part of a year that he spent with me in Hampshire, 
my former home, it seemed perfectly reestablished ; 
and he used to say it had surely pleased God that 



306 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BEITISH POETS. 

the last years of his life should be happy : but the 
Almighty's will was otherwise. The little cloud 
soon appeared, which was, in no long time, to over- 
shadow all. In the blackness of its shadow we still 
live, and shall pass from under it only through the 
portals of the grave. The last three years have 
done on me the work of twenty. The one sole 
business of my life is — that which I verily believe 
keeps the life in me — the guardianship of my dear, 
helpless, unconscious husband." 



AUTUMN FLOWERS. 

Those few pale autumn flowers, 

How beautiful they are ; 
Than all that went before, 
Than all the summer store ! 

How lovelier far ! 

And why ? They are the last ! 

The last! the last! the last! 
O by that little word 
How many thoughts are stirr'd ! 

That sister of the past. 

Pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers ! 

Te 're types of precious things : 
Types of those bitter moments 
That flit like life's enjoyments 

On rapid, rapid wings. 



CAROLINE SOUTHEY. 307 

Last hours with parting dear ones, 

That time the fastest spends ; 
Last tears in silence shed, 
Last words, half uttered, 

Last looks of dying friends. 

"Who but would fain compress 

A life into a day — 
The last day spent with one, 
Who ere the morrow's sun 

Must leave us, and for aye ? 

precious, precious moments ! 

Pale flowers, ye 're- types of those, — 
The saddest, sweetest, dearest, 
Because like those the nearest 

Is an eternal close. 

Pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers ! 
I woo your gentle breath. 

1 leave the summer rose 

For younger, blither brows — 

Teh me of change and death ! 

» 



308 SELECTIONS FKOM THE BRITISH POETS. 



Utarjj f fltoiti 



This lady, who, with her husband, has attained 
a well-earned and wide-spread fame, is now a 
resident of London, and is about forty-five years 
of age. She is the mother of four children, whose 
education she has to a good degree superin- 
tended. Her songs and ballads for the nursery 
are extensively known and republished in this 
country. 



WINTER. 



There 's not a flower upon the hill, 
There 's not a leaf upon the tree ; 
The summer bird hath left its bough, 
Bright child of sunshine, singing now 
In spicy lands beyond the sea. 

There 's silence in the harvest field 

And blackness in the mountain glen ; 
And cloud that will not pass away 
From the hill-tops for many a day, 
And stillness round the homes of men. 




WINTER 



MARY HOWITT. 309 

The old tree hath an older look, 
The lonesome place is yet more dreary ; 

They go not now, the young and old, 

Slow wandering on hy wood and wold. 

The air is damp, the winds are cold, 
And summer paths are wet and weary. 

The drooping year is in the wane, 

No longer floats the thistle-down ; 
The crimson heath is wan and sear, 
The sedge hangs withering hy the mere, 

And the hroad fern is rent and brown. 

The owl sits huddling by himself, 
The cold has pierced his body through ; 

The patient cattle hang their head, 

The deer are 'neath their winter shed, 

The ruddy squirrel 's in his bed, 

And each small thing within its burrow. 

In rich men's halls the fire is piled, 

And ermine robes keep out the weather ; 
In poor men's huts the fire is low, 
Through broken panes the keen winds blow, 
And old and young are cold together. 

O poverty is disconsolate ! 

Its pains are many, its foes are strong. 
The rich man in his jovial cheer, 
Wishes 't was winter through the year ; 
The poor man, 'mid his wants profound, 
With all his little children round, 

Prays God that winter be not long. 

One silent night hath pass'd, and lo ! 
How beautiful the earth is now ; 



310 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

All aspect of decay is gone, 
The hills have put their vesture on, 
And clothed is the forest bough. 

Say not 't is an unlovely time ; 

Turn to the wide white waste thy view ; 
Turn to the silent hills that rise 
In their cold beauty to the skies, 

And to those skies intensely blue. 

Silent, not sad, the scene appeareth, 
And Fancy, like a vagrant breeze, 
Keady a-wing for flight doth go, 
To the cold northern land of snow, 
Beyond the icy Orcades. 

The land of ice, the land of snow, 

The land that hath no summer flowers ; 

Where never living creature stood, 

The wild dim polar solitude, 
How different from this land of ours ! 

Walk now among the forest-trees ; 

Said'st thou that they were stripp'd and bare i 
Each heavy bough is bending down 
With snowy leaves and flowers, the crown 

Which Winter regally doth wear. 

'Tis well — thy summer garden ne'er 

Was lovelier, with its birds and flowers, 
Than is this silent place of snow, 
With feather-branches drooping low, 

Wreathing around thee shadowy bowers ! 



MARY HO WITT. 311 



THE GRAVE. 

O Grave, thou bast thy victory ! 
Beauty and strength are laid with thee. 
Thus is it in each distant clime, 
Thus was it in the ancient time. 

The prophets of all former days, 
All who win honour, love, and praise ; 
The eloquent tongue, the arm of might, 
The bard whose soul is love and light; 
The patriot king, the wise, the brave, 
Are ever mould'ring in the grave. 

O Grave, thou hast thy victory ! 
The desert sands are sown by thee ; 
And years must pass in misery steep'd 
Ere that dread harvest will be reap'd. 
The desert air is parch'd and dry, 
And thousands have lain down to die ; 
The traveller's steps grow slow and faint, 
His kind hear not his last complaint — 
See not his last convulsive start, 
As death is busy at his heart. 
His grave is in the burning sand, 
His mem'ry in his native land. 
Of old- thou had'st thy victory, 
And Cheops nobly built for thee ; 
Raising thy trophy in the pile 
That casts its shadow many a mile. 
Thine was the gain, when rose on high 
The Egyptian mothers' midnight cry ; 
And when God's angel with the blast 
Of death among the Assyrians pass'd ; 



312 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

"When the unnumber'd Persians lay- 
On Salamis at break of day ; 
And when 'mid revelry came down 
Darkness on the Italian town, 
O Grave, thou hadst thy victory ! 

Thine are the isles and thine the sea, 
The hoary hills are all thine own; 
With the gray cairn, and cromlech-stone, 
And groves of oak and woods of pine, 
And the dim ocean's caves are thine. 
Thy ancient slumbers lie beneath 
The untilled verdure of the heath ; 
And in the field thy ardent race 
Outstrips the hunter in the chase. 
The mariner finds no unknown bay, 
But there thou lurkest for thy prey. 

O Grave, what woe is wrought by thee ! 
"What clouded years of misery ! 
"What loving hearts hast thou bereft ! 
"What joyless, hopeless mourners left ! 
Young innocence without a guide 
Beset with snares on every side; 
Age with white hairs, and chilled blood, 
Pining in friendless solitude. 

Yet than earth's mightiest mightier, 
O Grave ! thou hast thy Vanquisher. 
Long in thy night was man forlorn ; 
Long didst thou laugh his hope to scorn. 
Vainly Philosophy might dream, 
Her light was but the meteor gleam, 
Till rose the Conqueror of Death, 
The humble Man of Nazareth. 



MARY HO WITT. 313 

He stood between us and despair ; 
He bore, and gave us strength to bear, 
The mysteries of the grave unseal'd, 
Our glorious destiny revealed ; 
Nor sage nor bard may comprehend 
The heaven of rest to which we tend. 
Our- home is not this mortal clime, 
Our life hath not its bounds in time ; 
And death is but the cloud that lies 
Between our souls and Paradise. 

O Grave ! well might each thoughtful race 
Give thee the high and holy place ; 
Mountains and groves were meet for thee, 
Thou portal of eternity. 
14 



314 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BEITISH POETS. 



Died 1852. 

Many of Mr. Moir's beautiful poems were pub- 
lished in Blackwood's Magazine, under the signa- 
ture of "Delta." 



LINES WKITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 

'T is night, and in darkness the visions of youth 

Flit solemn and slow in the eye of the mind ; 
The hope they excited hath perished, and truth 

Laments o'er the wrecks they are leaving hehind. 
'Tis midnight, and wide o'er the regions of riot, 

Are spread, deep in silence, the wings of repose ; 
And man, soothed from revel, and lulled into quiet, 

Forgets in his slumbers the weight of his woes. 

How gloomy and dim is the scowl of the heaven, 

Whose azure the clouds with their darkness invest! 
Not a star o'er the shadowy concave is given, 

To omen a something like hope to the breast. 
Hark! how the lone night- wind up-tosses the forest; 

A downcast regret through the mind slowly steals ; 
But ah ! 'tis the tempest of fortune that sorest 

The bosom of man in his solitude feels. 



D. M. MOIR. 315 

V\ r here, where are the spirits in whom was my trust, 

Whose bosoms with mutual affection did burn ? 
Alas ! they have gone to their homes in the dust, 

The grass rustles drearily over their urn ; 
VThile I, in a populous solitude, languish 

'Mid foes that beset me, and friends that are cold ; 
Ah ! the pilgrim of earth oft has felt in his anguish 

That the heart may be widowed before it is old ! 

Affection can soothe but its votaries an hour; 

Doomed soon in the flames that it raised, to depart; 
And ah ! disappointment has poison and power 

To ruffle and sour the most patient of heart ! 
Too oft 'neath the barb-pointed arrows of malice 

Has merit been destined to bear and to bleed ; 
And they who of pleasure have emptied the chalice, 

Have found that the dregs were full bitter indeed. 

Let the storms of adversity lower ; 'tis in vain, 

Though friends should forsake me, and foes should combine, 
Such may kindle the breasts of the weak to complain, 

They only can teach resignation to mine : 
For far o'er the regions of doubt and of dreaming, 

The spirit beholds a less perishing span ; 
And bright through the tempest the rainbow is streaming, 

The sign of forgiveness from Heaven to man ! 



316 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



WEEP NOT FOR HER! 

"Weep not for her ! Her span was like the sky 
"Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright, 

Like flowers that know not what it is to die, 
Like long-linked shadeless months of polar light, 

Like music floating o'er a waveless lake, 

"While echo answers from the flowery brake, 
"Weep not for her ! 

"Weep not for her ! She died in early youth, 
Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues ; 

"When human bosoms seemed the homes of truth, 
And earth still gleamed with beauty's radiant dews. 

Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze, 

Her wine of life was not run to the lees ; 
"Weep not for her ! 

Weep not for her ! By fleet or slow decay, 
It never grieved her bosom's core to mark 

The playmates of her childhood wane away, 

Her prospects wither, and her hopes grow dark : 

Translated by her God with spirit shriven, 

She passed, as 't were on smiles, from earth to heaven ; 
Weep not for her ! 

Weep not for her ! It was not hers to feel 
The miseries that corrode amassing years ; 

'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel, 
To wander sad down Age's vale of tears, 

As whirl the withered leaves from friendship's tree, 

And on earth's wintry world alone to be; 
"Weep not for her ! 



D. M. MOIR. 317 

"Weep not for her ! She is an angel now, 
And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise, 

All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow, 
Sin, sorrow, suffering, banished from her eyes ; 

Victorious over death, to her appears 

The vistaed joy of Heaven's eternal years ; 
Weep not for her ! 

Weep not for her! Her memory is the shrine 
Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers, 

Calm as on windless eves the sun's decline, 
Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers, 

Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light, 

Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night ; 
Weep not for her ! 

Weep not for her ! There is no cause of woe ; 

But rather nerve the spirit that it walk 
Unshrinking o'er the thorny path below, 

And from earth's low defilements keep thee back. 
So when a few fleet swerving years have flown, 
She '11 meet thee at Heaven's gate, and lead thee on ; 
Weep not for her ! 



318 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



gjfntr f&nupau* 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 

"We sleep, and wake and sleep, but all things move ; 
The sun flies forward to his brother sun; 
The dark earth follows, wheeled in her ellipse, 
And human things, returning on themselves, 
Move onward, leading up the golden year. 

Ah ! though the times when some new thought can bud 
Are but as poet's seasons when they flower, 
Yet seas that daily gain upon the shore 
Have ebb and flow, conditioning their march, 
And slow and sure comes up the golden year. 

When wealth no more shall rest in mounded heaps, 

But, smit with freer light, shall slowly melt 

In many streams to fatten lower lands, 

And light shall spread, and man be liker man, 

Through all the season of the golden year. 

Shall eagles not be eagles ? — wrens be wrens ? 
If all the world were falcons, what of that? 
The wonder of the eagle were the less, 
But he not less the eagle. Happy days 

Boll onward, leading up the golden year ! 
Fly happy, happy sails, and bear the Fress ; 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 319 

Fly, bappy with the mission of the Cross ; 
Knit land to land, and blowing havenward 
"With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 

But we grow old. Ah, when shall all men's good 
Be each man's rule, and universal peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land, 
And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, 
Through all the circle of the golden year. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD TEAR. 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 

And the winter winds are wearily sighing 
Toll ye the church bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low, 
For the Old Year lies a-dying. 
Old Year, you must not die; 
You came to us so readily, 
You lived with us so steadily ; 
Old Year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still ; he doth not move ; 

He will not see the dawn of day ; 
He hath no other life above. 
He gave me a friend, and a true, true love, 
And the New Year will take 'em away. 

Old Year, you must not go ; 
So long as you have been with us, 
Such joy as you have seen with us; 
Old Year, you shall not go. 

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; 
A jollier year we sball not see ; 



320 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

But though his foes speak ill of him 
He was a friend to me. 

Old Year, you shall not die ; 
"We did so laugh and cry with you 
I Ve half a mind to die with you, 

Old Tear, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest; 

But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 

But he '11 be dead before. 
Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my friend, 

And the New Year, blithe and bold, my friend, 
Oomes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! over the snow 

I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro ; 
The cricket chirps : the light burns low ; 

'T is nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands before you die. 
Old Year, we '11 dearly rue for you : 
What is it we can do for you ? 

Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin ; 

Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes ; tie up his chin ; 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 

That standeth there alone, 
And waiteth at the door. 
There 's a new foot on the floor, my friend, 
And a new face at the door, my friend, 
A new face at the door. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 321 



PROGRESS. 

King out, "wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying clouds, the frosty light ; 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Eing out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new ; 
Eing, happy bells, across the snow: 
The year is going, let him go : 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor ; 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
And ancient forms of party strife; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life 

"With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite ; 
Ring in the love of truth and right, 

Ring in the. common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land ; 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 
14* 



322 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



{[Hip fames §atUg, 



AUTHOR OF "FESTUS. 



THE END. 



'T is earth shall lead destruction ; she shall end ; 
The stars shall wonder why she comes no more 
On her accustomed orbit, and the sun 
Miss one of his apostle-lights ; the moon, 
An orphan orb, shall seek for earth for aye 
Through time's untrodden depths and find her not ; 
No more shall morn, out of the holy East, 
Stream o'er the ambient air her level light ; 
Nor evening, with her spectral fingers, draw 
Her star-spread curtain round the head of earth ; 
Her footsteps never thence again shall grace 
The blue sublime of heaven. 



FAITH. 



Faith is a higher faculty than reason, 
Though of the brightest power of Eevelation ; 
As the snow-headed mountain, rises o'er 
The lightning, and applies itself to Heaven. 
"We know in day-time there are stars about us 
Just as at night, and name them what and where 



PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. 323 

By light of Science ; so by Faith we know, 
Although we may not see them till our night, 
That spirits are about us, and believe 
That, to a spirit's eyes, all heaven may be 
As full of angels as a beam of light 
Of motes. 

Shall all defects of mind, and fallacies 

Of feeling, be immortalized ? all needs, 

All joys, all sorrows, be again gone through 

Before the final crisis be imposed? 

Shall heaven be but old earth created new ? 

Or earth, tree-like, transplanted into heaven, 

To flourish by the waters of all life ; 

And we within its shade, as heretofore, 

Cropping its fruit with life-seed cored at heart. 



TEMPTATION. 



"We know 
What 't is to triumph o'er temptation ; what 
To fall before it ; how the young spirit faints ; 
The virgin tremor, the heart's ebb and flow, 
When first some vast temptation calmly comes 
And states itself before it ; like the sun 
Low looming in the west, above the waves 
Of whimpling streamlet, ere its waters grow 
To size aortal. Than the Fiend himself, there is no greater 
evil. 



324 SELECTIONS FROM THE ERiTISH POETS. 



LIFE. 

The life I live is in a dark cold cavern, 
Where I wander up and down, feeling for something 
Which is to be — and must he — what I know not, 
But the incarnation of my destiny is nigh. 

*:}:****** 

There are points from which we can command our life ;- 

When the soul sweeps the future like a glass, 

And coming things, full freighted with our fate, 

Jut out — dark, on the offing of the mind. 

Let them come ! many will go down in sight, — 

In the billow's joyous dash of death go down ! 
******** 

A worm hath rights 
A king cannot despoil him of, nor sin; 
Yet wrongs are things necessitate, like wants, 
And oft are well permitted to best ends — 
A double error sometimes sets us l'ight. 



MARTIN FARQDHAR TUPPER. 325 



Mr. Tupper, the author of " Proverbial Philosophy," 
"A Thousand Lines," "The Crock of Gold," &c., 
is now about forty-two years of age, and resides 
near Guilford, England. He has written a great 
deal, but nothing of much poetical merit. 



THE WORDS OF WISDOM. 

Few and precious are the words which the lips of Wisdom 

utter : 
To what shall their rarity be likened ? What price shall count 

their worth ? 
Perfect, and much to be desired, and giving joy with riches, 
No lovely thing on earth can picture all their beauty. 
They be chance pearls, flung among the rocks by the sullen 

waters of Oblivion, 
Which Diligence loveth to gather, and hang round the neck 

of Memory. 
They be white-winged seeds of happiness, wafted from the 

islands of the blessed, 



326 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Which Thought carefully tendeth in the kindly garden of the 

heart ; 
They be sproutings of a harvest for eternity, bursting through 

the tilth of time, 
Green promise of the golden wheat that yieldeth angel's food. 
They be drops of the crystal dew which the wings of seraphs 

scatter, 
When on some brighter Sabbath their plumes quiver most 

with delight; 
Such, and so precious, are the words which the lips of Wisdom 

utter. 

Yet once again, loving student, suffer the praises of thy 

teacher, 
For verily the sun of the mind, and the life of the heart, is 

Wisdom. 
She is pure and full of light, crowning gray hairs with lustre, 
And kindling the eye of youth with a fire not its own ; 
And her words, whereunto canst thou liken them ? for earth 

cannot show their peers ; 
They be grains of the diamond sand, the radiant floor of 

heaven, 
Eising in sunny dust behind the chariot of God ; 
They be flashes of the day-spring from on high, shed from the 

windows of the skies ; 
They be streams of living waters, fresh from the fountain of 

Intelligence ; 
Such, and so precious, are the words which the lips of Wisdom 

utter. 

For these shall guide thee well, and guard thee on thy way ; 
And wanting all beside, with these shalt thou be rich. 
Though all around be woe, these shall make thee happy ; 
Though all within be pain, these shall bring thee health ; 
Thy good shall grow into ripeness, thine evil wither and 
decay ; 



MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER. 32*7 

And "Wisdom's words shall sweetly charm thy doubtful into 
virtues ; 

Meanness shall then be frugal care ; where shame was, tht n 
art modest ; 

Cowardice riseth into caution, rashness is sobered into courage ; 

The wrathful spirit, rendering a reason, standeth justified in 
anger ; 

The idle hand hath fair excuse, propping the thoughtful fore- 
head. 

Life shall have no labyrinth, but thy steps can track it, 

For thou hast a silken clue to lead thee through the darkness ; 

The rampant minotaur of ignorance shall perish at thy coming, 

And thine enfranchised fellows hail thy white victorious sails. 

Wherefore, friend and scholar, hear the words of Wisdom, 

Whether she speaketh to thy soul in the full chords of revela- 
tion; 

In the teaching earth, or air, or sea ; in the still melodies of 
thought. 

Or, haply, in the humbler strains that woidd detain thee here. 



OF ANTICIPATION. 

Thou hast seen many sorrows, travel-stained pilgrim of the 

world, 
But that which hath vexed thee most hath been the looking 

for evil ; 
And though calamities have cross'd thee, and misery been 

heaped on thy head, 
Yet ills that never happened have chiefly made thee wretched. 
The sting of pain and the edge of pleasure are blunted by long 

expectation, 



328 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

For the gall and the balm alike are diluted in the waters of 
patience, 

And oft thou sippest sweetness ere the cup is dashed from thy 
lips; 

Or drainest the gall of fear, while evil is passing by thy dwell- 
ing- 

A man too careful of danger liveth in continual torment, 

But a cheerful especter of the best hath a fountain of joy within 
him; 

Yea, though the breath of Disappointment should chill the 
sanguine heart, 

Speedily gloweth it again, warmed by the live embers of hope. 

Though the black and heavy surge close above the head for a 
moment, 

Yet the happy buoyancy of Confidence riseth superior to 
Despair. 

Yerily, evils may be courted, may be woo'd and won by dis- 
trust ; 

For the wise Physician of our weal loveth not an unbelieving 
spirit, 

And to those giveth He good who rely on His hand for good ; 

And those leaveth He to evil, who fear, but trust Him not. 

Ask for good, and hope it, for the ocean of good is fathom- 
less; 

Ask for good, and have it, for thy friend would see thee happy ; 

But to the timid heart, to the child of unbelief and dread, 

That leaneth on his own weak staff, and trusteth the sight of 
his eyes, 

The evil he feared shall come, for the soil is ready for the 
seed, 

And Suspicion hath coldly put aside the hand that was ready 
to help him — 

Therefore, look up ! sad spirit ; be strong, thou coward heart ! 

Or fear will make thee wretched, though evil follow not be- 
hind. 



MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER. 329 

Cease to anticipate misfortune — there are still many chances 
of escape ; 

But if it come, be courageous; face it, and conquer thy 
calamity. 

There is not an enemy so stout as to storm and take the for- 
tress of the mind, 

Unless its infirmity turn traitor, and Fear unbar the gates. 

The valiant standeth as a rock, and the billows break upon 
him; 

The timorous is a skiff unmoored, tossed and mocked at by a 
ripple ; 

The valiant holdeth fast to good, till evil wrench it from him ; 

The timorous casteth it aside, to meet the worst halfway: 

Yet oftentimes is evil but a braggart, that provoketh but will 
not fight ; 

Or the feint of a subtle fencer, who measureth his thrust else- 
where ; 

Or, perchance, a blessing in a masque, sent to try thy trust — 

The precious smiting of a friend, whose frowns are all in love. 

Often the storm threateneth, but is driven to other climes, 

And the weak hath quailed in fear, while the firm hath been 
glad in his confidence. 



TO-DAY. 



Now, is the constant syllable ticking from the clock of time ; 
Now, is the watchword of the wise ; Now, is on the banner of 

the prudent. 
Cherish thy To-day, and prize it well, or ever it be gulfed into 

the past ; 
Husband it, for who can promise if it shall have a morrow ; 
Behold thou art — it is enough ; that present care be thine ; 



330 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Leave thou the past to thy Eedeemer, intrust the future to thy 

Friend ; 
But for to-day, child of man, tend thou charily the minutes, 
The harvest of thy yesterday, the seed even of thy morrow. 

Last night died its day, and the deeds thereof were judged : 

Thou didst lay thee down as in a shroud, in darkness and 
death-like slumber ; 

But at the trumpet of this morn, waking the world to resur- 
rection, 

Thou did'st arise, like others, to live a new day's life ; 

Fear, lest folly give thee cause to mourn its passing presence ; 

Fear, that to-morrow's sigh be not, "Would God it had not 
dawned ! 

For To-day the lists are set, and thou must bear thee bravely, 

Tilting for honour, duty, life, or death, without reproach ; 

To-day is the trial of thy fortitude, O dauntless Mandan 
chief! 

To-day is thy watch, O sentinel ! to-day thy reprieve, cap- 
tive! 

"What more ? To-day is the golden chance wherewith to snatch 
fruition. 

Be glad, grateful, temperate : there are asps among the figs. 

For the potter's clay is in thy hands, — to mould it or to mar 
it at thy will, 

Or idly to leave it in the sun, an uncouth lump, to harden. 

O bright presence of To-day, let me wrestle with thee, gracious 



I will not let thee go except thou bless me ; bless me, then, 
To-day! 

sweet garden of To-day, let me gather of thee, precious 

Eden! 

1 have stolen bitter knowledge, give me fruits of life To-day. 



MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER. 331 

true temple of To-day! let me worship in thee, glorious 

Ziou ; 

1 find none other place nor time than where I am To-day : 

living rescue of To-day, let me run unto thee, ark of refuge I 

1 see none other hope nor chance, hut standeth in To-day: 

rich banquet of To-day, let me feast upon thee, saving 

manna 1 

1 have none other food nor store, but daily bread To-day! 
Behold, thou art pilot of the ship, and owner of that freighted 

galleon, 

Competent, with all thy weakness, to steer into safety or be 
lost: 

Compass and chart are in thy hand ; roadstead and rocks thou 

knowest ; 
Thou art warned of reefs and shallows ; thou beholdest the 

harbour and its lights. 
What! shall thy wantonness or sloth drive the gallant vessel 

on the breakers ? 
What ! shall the helmsman's hand wear upon the black lee 

shore ? 
Yain is that excuse ; thou canst escape : thy mind is responsi- 
ble for wrong ; . 
Yain that murmur ; thou mayest live ; thy soul is debtor for 

the right. 
To-day, in the voyage of thy life down the dark tide of time, 
Stand boldly to the tiller, guide thee by the pole-star, and be 

safe; 
To-day, passing near the sunken-rocks, the quicksands, and the 

whirlpools of probation, 
Leave awhile the rudder to swing round, give the wind its 

heading, and be wrecked. 

The crisis of man's destiny is Now, a still recurring danger : 
Who can tell the trials and temptations coming with the com- 
ing hour? 



332 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BRITISH POETS. 

Thou standest a target-like Sebastian, and the arrows whistle 

near thee: 
"Who knoweth when he may be hit ? for great is the company 

of archers. 
Each breath is burdened with a bidding, and every arrow hath 

its mission ; 
For spirits good and bad cluster on the thickly-peopled air ; 
Sin may blast thee, grace may bless thee, good or ill this 

hour : 
Chance, and change, and doubt, and fear, are parasites of all. 
A man's life is a tower, with a staircase of many steps, 
That as he toileth upward crumble successively behind him: 
No going back — the past is an abyss ; no stopping, for the 

present perisheth ; 
But ever hasting on, precarious, on the foothold of To-day; 
Our cares are all To-day ; our joys are all To-day ; 
And in one little word, our life, what is it but To-day? 



OF TO-MORROW. 

There is a floating island forward, on the stream of time, 
Buoyant with fermenting air, and borne along the rapids ; 
And on that island is a siren, singing sweetly as she goeth. 
Her eyes are bright with invitation, and allurement lurketh in 

her cheeks ; 
Many lovers, vainly pursuing, follow her beckoning finger ; 
Many lovers, seek her still, even to the cataract of death. 
To-morrow is that island — a vain and foolish heritage ; 
And, laughing with seductive lips, Delusion hideth there. 
Often the precious present is wasted in visions of the future, 
And coy To-morrow cometh not with prophecies fulfilled. 



MARTiN FARQUHAR TUPPER. 333 

There is a fairy skiff plying on the sea of life, 

And charitably toiling still to save the shipwreck'd crews ; 

"Within, kindly patient, sitteth a gentle mariner, 

Piloting, through surf and strait, the fragile barks of men : 

How cheering is her voice, how skilfully she guideth ! 

How nobly leading onward, yet defying even death! 

To-morrow is that skiff, a wise and welcome rescue ; 

And, full of gladdening words and looks, that mariner is Hope. 

Often, the painful present is comforted by the nattering Future, 

And kind To-morrow beareth half the burdens of To-day. 

To-morrow whispereth weakness, and To-morrow findeth him 

the weaker ; 
To-morrow promiseth conscience; and, behold! no To-day for 

a fulfilment. 
O name of happy omen unto youth! O bitter word of terror to 

the dotard! 
Goal of Folly's lazy wish, and Sorrow's ever-coming friend ; 
Fraud's loop-hole, Caution's hint, and trap to catch the honest — 
Thou wealth to many poor, disgrace to many noble ; 
Thou hope and fear, thou weal and woe, thou remedy, thou 

ruin ! 
How thickly swarms of thought are clustering round To-mor- 
row ! 
The hive of memory increaseth, to every day its cell; 
There is the labouv stored — the honey or corruption ; 
Each morn the bees fiy forth to fill the growing comb, 
And levy golden tribute of the uncomplaining flowers. 
To-morrow is their care ; they toil for rest To-morrow ; 
But man deferreth duty's task, and loveth ease To-day. 
To-morrow is that lamp upon the marsh which a traveller 

never reacheth ; 
To-morrow, the rainbow's cup, coveted prize of ignorance; 
To-morrow, the shifting anchorage, dangerous trust of mari 

ners; 



334 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

To-morrow, the wrecker's beacon, wily snare of the destroyer. 
Eeconcile conviction with delay, and To-morrow is a fatal lie ; 
Frighten resolutions into action. To-morrow is a wholesome 

truth ; 
I mnst, for I fear To-morrow; this is the Cassava's food; 
Why should I ? let me trust To-morrow ; this is the Cassava's 

poison. 
Lo, it is the even of To-day, a day so lately a. To-morrow; 
Where are those high resolves, those hopes of yesternight ? 

faint, fond heart, still shall thy whisper be, To-morrow ! 
And must the growing avalanche of sin roll down that easy 

slope ? 
Alas ! it is ponderous, and moving on in might, that a Sisyphus 

may not stop it ; 
But haste thee with the lever of a prayer, and stem its strength 

To-day : 
For its race may speedily be run, and this poor hut, thyself, 
Be whelmed in death and suffocating guilt, that dreary Alpine 

snow-wreath. 

Pensioner of life, be wise, and heed a brother's counsel! 

1 also am a beadsman, with scrip and staff as thou : 

Wouldest thou be bold against the Past, and all its evil memo- 
ries, 

Wouldest thou be safe amid the Present — its dangers and 

temptations ? 
Wouldest thou be hopeful of the Future — vague though it 

be, and endless? 
Haste thee, repent, believe, obey ! thou standest in the courage 

of a legion : 
Commend the Past to God, with all its irrevocable harm, 
Humbly, but in cheerful trust, and banish vain regrets ; 
Come to him — continually come — casting all the Present at his 

feet. 
Boldly, but in prayerful love, and fling off selfish cares ; 
Commit the Future to his will, — the viewless, fated Future ! 



MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER. 335 

Zealously go forward with integrity, and God will bless thy 
faith. 

For that, feeble as thou art, there is with thee a mighty Con- 
queror, 

The Friend, the same forever, — Yesterday, To-day, and To- 
morrow; 

That Friend, changeless as eternity, Himself shall make thee 
friends — 

Of those thy foes transformed — Yesterday, To-day, and To- 
morrow. 



336 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



1816. 

Miss Frances Brown is a native of England, the 
daughter of a postmaster in humble circumstances. 
• She has written many poems remarkable for their 
smoothness of composition and beauty of thought. 
Shut away from the light forever, while upon 
earth, the spirit of song is strong within her, and 
the eye of the soul discerns invisible things. She 
may not see the lovely creations of the world about 
her; but the shadow of its light, and beauty, and 
joy is within, like a dreamt vision. Her poems 
have been recently collected, and published in 
book form. 



LET US RETURN! 

Let us return ! said the broken heart 

Of the mountain hermit's tale, 
When he saw the morning mists depart 

From the summits gray and pale ; 
For he knew that the fan-palm cast the shade 

Of its ever-glorious green 



FRANCES BROWN. 337 

Where the love of his Masted youth was laid, 

And the light of her steps had heen. 
Ah ! thus forever the heart looks back 

To its young hope's funeral urn, — 
To the tender green of that early track, 

To its light let us return. 



The lines of our life may be smooth and strong, 

And our pleasant path may lie 
Where the stream of Affection flows along 

In the light of a summer sky. 
But woe for the lights that early wane, 

And the shades that early fall, 
Aud the prayer that speaks of the secret pain, 

Though its voice be still and small. 
To the sweeter flowers, to the brighter streams, 

To the household hearths that burn 
Still bright in our holy land of dreams, 

To their love let us return. 



'T is well we have learned the truths of time ; 

But they came with winter's snow; 
For we saw them not through the flowery prhno 

Of our summers long ago. 
Yet the spring is green and the summer bright 

As they were in the years of yore, 
But on our souls the love and light 

Of their gladness come no more. 
Back — back to the wisdom of the years 

That had yet no loss to mourn, 
To their faith that found no place for tears, 

To their joy let us return. 
15 



338 SELECTION'S FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

"We have paused perchance by the quiet grave 

Of our young who early slept ; 
And since they left us many a wave 

O'er our weary bark hath swept. 
But far in the morning light enshrined 

They gladden our backward gaze, 
Or wake, like the breath of the summer's wind, 

The soul of our better days. 
Back — back to the living wave we drew 

With them, from a purer urn ; 
To the path of the promise, lost to view, 

And its peace — let us return ! 



STREAMS. 



Ye early minstrels of the earth, 

Whose mighty voices woke 
The echoes of its infant woods 

Ere yet the tempest spoke ; 
How is it that ye waken still 

The young heart's happy dreams, 
And shed your light on darkened days, 

O bright and blessed streams ! 

Woe for the world ! She hath grown old 

And gray in toil and tears ; 
But ye have kept the harmonies 

Of her unfallen years. 
Forever in our weary path 

Your ceaseless music seems 
The spirit of her perished youth, 

Ye glad and glorious streams! 



FRANCES BROWN. 339 

Your murmurs bring the pleasant breath 

Of many a sylvan scene ; 
They tell of sweet and sunny vales, 

And woodlands wildly green. 
Ye cheer the lonely heart of Age, 

Ye fill the Exile's dreams 
With hope, and home, and memory, 

Ye unforgotten streams ! 

Too soon the blessed springs of love 

To bitter fountains turn ; 
And deserts drink the stream that flows 

From Hope's exhaustless mm ; 
And faint upon the waves of life 

May fall the summer beams ; 
But they linger long and bright with you, 

Ye sweet, unchanging streams ! 

The bards, the ancient bards, who sang 

When" thought and song were new, 
O, mighty waters ! did they learn 

Their minstrelsy from you ? 
For still, methinks, your voices blend 

With all their glorious themes. 
That flow forever, fresh and free, 

As the eternal streams. 

Well might the sainted seer of old, 

Who trod the tearless shore, 
Like many waters, deem the voice 

The angel hosts adore ; 
For still, where deep the rivers roll, 

Or far the torrent gleams, 
Our spirits hear the voice of God 

Amid the rush of streams. 



340 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



THE VOICE OF THE FALLING LEAVES. 

A friendless minstrel walk'd alone 

"Where the autumn twilight lay 
Cold on the woods, and leaves were strown 

By thousands in his way ; 
He thought of the promise-hreathing spring, 

And of summer's rosy eves ; 
And he said, "Alas! for the withering, 

And the time of falling leaves! " 

The music of bird and breeze had pass'd 

From the woodlands, hush'd and dim ; 
But there came an answering voice at last 

From the dying leaves to him ; 
And it said, " O thou of the sleepless thought ! 

In thy musings sad and lone, , 
Weep not the close of our tearless lot, 

But rather mourn thine own ; 

" For the greenness of early spring was ours, 

And the summer's palmy prime ; 
And the glowing tints that deck'd the bowers 

In the glorious harvest time ! 
And have we not seen the roses die ? 

For their splendours might not stay ; 
And the summer birds are gone, then why 

Should not leaves, too, pass away ? 

"Yet the flowers may fade, and the leaves may fall, 

And the glory of woods depart ; 
But mourn in thy sorrow, more than all, 

The withering of the heart ; 



FRANCES BROWNE. 341 

And the soul's young brightness dimm'd so soon. 

'Twas a glory early o'er; 
For Time hath taken that blessed boon 

That Time can ne'er restore. 

" And mourn for Life's perish'd hopes, that died 

While the Spring was flowery still ; 
For the stainless love which the grave hath hid, 

Though it could not change nor chill ; 
For the weary eyes that have look'd for light, 

Which never met their gaze ; 
And for all who have lived through storm and blight, 

But saw no summer days." 

The winds in their lonely power awoke 

As the night came darkly on ; 
And the voice which in twilight stillness spoke, 

With that twilight hour was gone. 
"And O ! " said the minstrel, " strange, in sooth, 

Are the spells which Fancy weaves ; 
For now she has given a voice of trutli 

To the fading, falling leaves !•" 



WE ARE GROWING OLD. 

We are growing old— how the thought will rise, 

When a glance is backward cast, 
On some long-remember'd spot that lies 

In the silence of the past ! 
It may be the shrine of our early vows, 

Or the tomb of early tears ; 
But it seems like a far-off isle to us 

In the stormy sea of years. 



342 SELECTIONS FEOM THE BEITISH POETS. 

O ! wide and wild are the waves that part 

Our steps from its greenness now ; 
And we miss the joy of many a heart, 

And the light of many a brow ; 
For deep o'er many a stately bark 

Have the whelming billows roll'd, 
That steer'd with us from that early mark — 

O, friends, we are growing old ! 

Old in the dimness and the dnst 

Of our daily toils and cares, — 
Old in the wrecks of love and trust, 

Which our burden'd memory bears ; 
And O, the changes we have seen 

In the far and winding way! 
The graves in our path that have grown green, 

And the locks that have grown gray ! 

We have gain'd the world's cold wisdom now, 

We have learn'd to pause and fear ; 
But where are the living founts, whose flow 

Was a joy of heart to hear? 
We have won the wealth of many a clime, 

And the lore of many a page; 
But where is the hope that saw in Time 

But its boundless heritage ? 

* Will it come again when the violet wakes, 

And the woods their youth renew ? 
We have stood in the light of sunny brakes, 

Where the bloom was deep and blue ; 
And our souls might joy in the spring-time then, 

But the joy was faint and cold ; 
For it ne'er could give us the youth again 

Of hearts that are growing old ! 



MISS ELIZA COOK. 343 



Oj 



IBB <IIt§a €ttQh 



The poems of this lady were republished in this 
country, in 1844, under the title of "Melaia, and 
other Poems." She is now editor of a monthly 
journal in London. 



THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 

I love it, I love it, — and who shall dare 

To chide me for loving that Old Arm-chair ? 

I 've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; 

I 've bedew' d it with tears, and embalm'd it with sighs; 

'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart, — 

Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 

Would ye learn the spell ? — a mother sat there ! 

And a sacred thing is that Old Arm-chair. 

In childhood's hour I linger'd near 

The hallow'd seat with listening ear ; 

And gentle words that mother would give, 

To fit me to die, and teach me to live ; 

She told me shame would never betide, 

"With truth for my creed, and God for my guide. 

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 

As I knelt beside that Old Arm-chair. 



344 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

I sat and watch'd her many a day, 

"When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were gray; 

And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled, 

And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child. 

Years roll'd on, but the last one sped — 

My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled ; 

I learn'd how much the heart can bear, 

When I saw her die in that Old Arm-chair. 

'T is past ! 't is past ! but I gaze on it now 

With quivering breath and throbbing brow ; 

'T was there she nursed me — 't was there she died, 

And memory flows with lava tide. 

Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 

While the scalding drops start down my cheek-, 

But I love it — I love it ! and cannot tear 

My soul from a mother's Old Arm-chair. 



FIRE. 



Blandly glowing, richly bright, 
Cheering star of social light ; 
While I gently heap it higher, 
How I bless thee, sparkling fire ! 
Who loves not the kindly rays 
Streaming from the temper'd blaze ? 
Who can sit beneath his hearth, 
Dead to feeling, stern to mirth? 
Who can watch the crackling pile, 
And keep his breast all cold the while ? 
Fire is good, but it must serve : 
Keep it thrall'd — for if it swerve 



MISS ELIZA COOK. 345 

Into Freedom's open path, 
What shall check its maniac wrath ? 
"Where 's the tongue that can proclaim 
The fearful work of curbless flame ? 
Darting wide, and shooting high, 
It lends a horror to the sky ; 
It rushes on to waste, to scare, 
Arousing terror and despair ; 
It tells the utmost earth can know 
About the demon scenes below ; 
And sinks at last, all spent and dead, 
Among the ashes it has spread. 

Sure the poet is not wrong 
To glean a moral from the song. 
Listen, youth ! nor scorn, nor frown, — 
Thou must chain thy passions down. 
"Well to serve, but ill to sway, 
Like the fire, they must obey. 
They are good, in the subject state, 
To strengthen, warm, and animate; 
But if once we let them reign, 
They sweep with desolating train, 
Till they but leave a hated name, 
A ruin'd soul, a blacken'd fame. 



"THY WILL BE DONE!" 

Let the scholar and divine 
Tell us how to pray aright; 

Let the truths of Gospel shine 

Witli their precious hallow'd light; 
1 5* 



346 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

But the prayer a mother taught 
Is to me a matchless oue ; 

Eloquent and spirit-fraught 

Are the words — "Thy Will be done!" 

Though not fairly understood, 

Still those words, at evening hour, 
Imply some Being great and good, 

Of mercy, majesty, and power. 
Bending low, on infant knee, 

And gazing on the setting sun, 
I thought that orb His home must be, 

To whom I said—" Thy Will be done!" 

I have search'd the sacred page, 

I have heard the godly speech ; 
But the lore of saint or sage 

Nothing holier can teach. 
Pain has wrung my spirit sore, * 

But my soul the triumph won, 
When the anguish that I bore 

Only breathed—" Thy Will be done ! " 

They have served in pressing need, 

Have nerved my heart in every task ; 
And howsoe'er my breast may bleed, 

No other balm of prayer I ask. 
When my whiten'd lips declare 

Life's last sands have almost run, 
May the dying breath they bear 

Murmur forth—" Thy Will be done ! " 



HON. MRS. NORTON. 347 



01L Mrs. Earfax 



Mrs. Norton is a granddaughter of Richard 
Brinsley Sheridan. Her father died when she 
was quite young, leaving herself and another 
sister (subsequently distinguished in the world of 
letters) to the care of an affectionate and intelli- 
gent mother. Miss Sheridan was remarkable 
when a child for her love of knowledge and reflec- 
tion, and early gave promise of talent which the 
future was amply to fulfil. Before the age of 
twelve, each of the sisters had filled a small vol- 
ume of original poetry. At seventeen she published 
'The Sorrows of Rosalie," a poem of considerable 
merit ; and a year or two after, being bereaved by 
death of the one she loved, she was hastily and un- 
fortunately married to the Hon. George Chappel 
Norton — "a man whose only nobility was in his 
blood." After living unhappily together for a few 
years, they separated. Mrs. Norton bore the in- 
sulting neglect and lying slanders of her husband 
with calmness and patience ; but the impress of 
the agonies through which she has passed may 
often be traced in her writings, and have left 
an indelible shade of sorrow and grief upon her 



348 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS- 

mental character. She is distinguished for knowl- 
edge of the hnman heart, for strength of lan- 
guage, and for a clear delineation of the feelings 
and passions of the several characters she has 
portrayed. Several of her works have been 
republished in this country, among which is the 
"Dream, and other Poems," issued under the care 
of Dr. Rufus Griswold. 



OBSCURITY OF. WOMAN. 

FROM THE DREAM. 

TWILIGHT. 

O Twilight ! spirit that dost render birth 

To dim enchantments ; melting heaven with earth, 

Leaving on craggy hills and running streams 

A softness like the atmosphere of dreams — 

Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and meet 

Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet, 

"Who, slow returning from his task of toil, 

Sees the slow sunset gild the cultured soil, 

And though such radiance round him brightly glows, 

Marks the slow spark his cottage window throws ; 

Still, as his heart forestalls his weary pace, 

Fondly he dreams of each familiar face, 

Eecalls the treasures of his narrow life, 

His rosy children and his sunburnt wife, 

To whom his coming is the chief event 

Of simple days in cheerful labour spent. 

The rich man's chai'iot hath gone whirling past, 



HON. MRS. NORTON. 349 

And these poor cottagers have only cast 
One careless glance on all that show of pride, 
Then to their tasks turned quietly aside ; 
But him they wait for, him they welcome home, 
Fond sentinels look forth to see him come ; 
For him the watching of that sturdy hoy ; 
For him those smiles of tenderness and joy; 
For him — who plods his sauntering way along, 
"Whistling the fragment of some village song! 

A MOTHER. 

Ah ! blest are they for whom, 'mid all their pains, 

That faithful and unalter'd love remains ; 

Who — life wrecked round them, hunted from their rest, 

And by all else forsaken or distress 1 d — 

Claim, in one heart, their sanctuary and shrine, — 

As I, my mother, claimed my place in thine ! 

Oft, since that hour, in sadness I retrace 

My childhood's visions of thy calm, sweet face ; 

Oft see thy form, its mournful beauty shrouded 

By that deep wretchedness the lonely know ; 

Stifling thy grief, to hear some weary task, , 

Conned by unwilling lips, with listless air ; 

Hoarding thy means, lest future need might ask 

More than the widow's pittance then could spare. 

Hidden, forgotten by the great and gay, 

Enduring sorrow, not by fits and starts, 

But the long self-denial, clay by day, 

Alone amid thy brood of careless hearts ! 

Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain 

The young rebellious spirits crowding round, 

Who saw not, knew not, felt not for thy pain, 

And could not comfort — yet had power to wound ! 

Ah ! how my selfish heart, that since hath grown 

Familiar with deep trials of its own, 



350 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

With riper judgment, looking to the past, 
Eegrets the careless days that flew so fast, 
Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time, 
And darkens every folly into crime ! 

In many a village churchyard's simple grave, 

Where all unmark'd the cypress branches wave ; 

In many a vault, where Death could only claim 

The brief inscription of a woman's name ; 

Of different ranks, and different degrees, 

From daily labour to a life of ease, 

(From the rich wife, who through the weary day 

Wept in her jewels — Grief's unceasing prey — 

To the poor soul who trudged o'er marsh and moor, 

And with her baby begg'd from door to door,) 

Lie hearts, which ere they found that last release, 

Had lost all memory of the blessing " Peace ;" 

Hearts, whose long struggle, through unpitied years, 

None saw but Him who marks the mourner's tears ; 

The obscurely noble ! who evaded not 

The Avoe which He had will'd should be their lot ; 

But nerved themselves to bear ! 

Of such art thou, 
My mother ! With thy calm and holy brow, 
And high devoted heart, — which suffer'd still, 
Unmurmuring, through each degree of ill. 
And, because Fate had will'd that mine should be 
A poet's soul, (at least in some degree,) 
And that my verse would faintly shadow forth 
What I have seen of pure unselfish worth, — 
Therefore I speak of thee ; that those who read 
That trust in woman which is still my creed 
Thy early-widow'd image may recall, 
And greet thy nature as the type of all ! 



HON. MRS. NORTON. 351 



THE CHILD OF EARTH. 

Eainter her slow step falls from day to day ; 

Death's heavy hand is on her dark'ning brow : 

Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say, 

" I am content to die — but O, not now ! 

Not while the blossoms of the joyous sj)ring 

Make the warm air such luxury to breathe ; 

Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing ; 

Not while the bright flowers round my footsteps wreathe. 

Spare me, great God! lift up my drooping brow — 

I am content to die — but O, not now ! " 

The spring hath ripen'd into summer time, 
The season's viewless boundary is past; 
The glorious sun hath reach'd its burning prime ; 
! must this glimpse of beauty be the last ? 
"Let me not perish while, o'er land and lea, 
With silent steps, the lord of light moves on ; 
For while the murmur of the mountain bee 
Greets my dull ear with music in its tone, 
Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow — 
I am content to die — but O, not now! " 

Summer is gone, and autumn's sober hues 
Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn ; 
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, 
Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn. 
" Spare me awhile to wander forth and gaze 
On the broad meadows and the quiet stream; 
To watch in silence while the ev'ning rays 
Slant through the fading trees with ruby gleam ! 
Cooler the breezes play around my brow, — 
I am content to die — but O, not now! " 



352 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

The bleak wind whistles ; snow-showers, far and near, 

Drift without echo to the whitening ground ; 
Autumn hath pass'd away, and cold and drear 

Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound ; 
Yet still that prayer ascends : — " ! laughingly 

My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd ; 
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high, 

And the roof rings with voices glad and loud — 
Spare me awhile ! raise up my drooping brow ! 
I am content to die- — but O, not now!" 

The spring is come again — the joyful spring! 

Again the banks with clust'ring flowers are spread ; 
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing ; 

The child of earth is numbered with the dead ! 
Thee never more the sunshine shall awake, 

Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane ; 
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break, 

Nor fond, familiar voice arouse again. 
Death's silent shadow veils thy darken'd brow ; 
Why did'st thou linger ? — thou art happier now ! 



SONNET. 



Silent companions of the lonely hour, 

Friends who can never alter or forsake, — 
Who for inconstant roving have no power, 

And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take, — 
Let me return to you ; this turmoil ending, 

Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought, 
And o'er your old familiar pages bending, 

Eefresh my mind with many a tranquil thought, 



HON. MRS. NORTON. 353 

Till haply meeting there, from time to time, 

Fancies, the audible echo of my own, 
'T will be like hearing in a foreign clime 

My native language spoke in friendly tone, 
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell 
On these, my unripe musings, told so well. 



NEUTRALITY. 

! there are moments of our lives, when such 
As will not help to lift us strike us down ! 

When the green bough just bonds so near our clutch, 
"When the light rope so easily was thrown, 
That they are murderers that behold us drown. 

"Well spoke the poet-heart, so tried by woe, 

That there are hours when left despairing, lone, 

" Each idle on-looker appears a foe ;" 
For Hate can scarce do worse than no compassion show. 

Neutrality is Hate ; the aid withheld 

Flings its large balance in the adverse scale ; 
And makes the enemy we might have quell'd 

Strong to attack, and certain to prevail ; 

Yea, clothes him, scoffing, in a suit of mail ! 
Those are the days which teach unhappy elves, 

No more such callous bosom to assail ; 
The rocky soil no more the weak one delves ; 
Upright we stand, and trust in God and in ourselves. 



354 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



$xmxtts JiraftU §ut-Ur. 

This lady is a native of England, and a niece of Mrs. 
Siddons. She was educated an actress. In 1833 
or 1834 she came to the United States, and was 
married to Pierce Butler, of Philadelphia. They 
lived together but a short time, when she separated 
from him and returned to England, where she 
now resides. She has written a number of dramas 
and sonnets of a high order. 



THE OLD HOME. 

I love that dear old home ! my mother lived there 

Her first sweet marriage years, and last sad widow'd ones. 

Something of old ancestral pride it keeps, 

Though fallen from its earlier power and vastness. 

Mary ! we 're not so wealthy as we were, 

Nor yet so warlike — still it holds enough 

Of ancient strength and state to prompt the memory 

To many a "wherefore;" and for every answer 

You shall have stories long and wonderful, — 

Enough to make a balladmonger's fortune. 



FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 355 

Old trees do grow around its old gray walla, 

The fellows of my mouldering grandfathers. 

Faith ! they do mock us with their young old age, 

These giant wearers of a thousand summers. 

Strange, that the seed we sow should hloom and flourish 

When we are faded — flowers, fruit, and all. 

There 
The sunlight seems to my eyes brighter far 
Than wheresoever else. I knoAV the forms 
Of every tree and mountain, hill and dell ; 
The waters gurgle forth a tongue I know. 
It is my home — it will be thine, Estrella ; 
And every leafy glade, and shadoAvy path, 
Sweet sunny slope, and echo-haunted hollow, 
Hath heard thy name a thousand thousand times. 

Feom Francis the Fiest. 



PAST HOURS. 



Two angels have them in their keeping ; — 

He that beside the deep vaults of the past 
Stands to receive the treasures, that with weeping 
And lamentation into them men cast, 
Forgetting that alone they hold that fast 
"Which to his marble storehouse they commit ; 

And he, that spirit, bright and terrible, 
Who at the feet of God doth thoughtful sit, 
Upon whose scroll, in lines of flame, are writ 
Each hour of every day, of those who dwell 
Upon this earth, ne hath those days and hours, 
Which as they smiled on us we counted ours ; 
And who, when that great history appears, 
Shall make us answer as if we were theirs. 



356 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 



LIFE. 

Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn 
O'er joys that God hath for a season lent, 
Perchance, to try thy spirit and its bent. 

Effeminate soul and base ! weakly to mourn ! 

There lies no desert in the land of life, 
For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem, 
Labour'd of thee, in faith and hope, shall teem 

With heavenly harvest, and rich gatherings, rife. 

Haply no more, music, and mirth, and love, 
And glorious things of old and younger art, 

Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast ; 
But when these bright companions all depart, 

Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast 

Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above. 



ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. 357 



Mrs. Browning is a lady of brilliant genius, and of 
fine attainments as a scholar. She is well read in 
the classics, particularly in the Greek; and her 
writings, like those of Mrs. Norton, are distinguish- 
ed by masculine vigour of thought and expression. 
The tendency of her works is decidedly moral, 
and generally religious. She is the author of a 
number of volumes, — some of original poetry, and 
one or two translations. 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 

It is a place where poets, crown'd, 

May feel the heart's decaying! 
It is a place where happy saints 

May weep amid their praying. 
Yet let the grief and humbleness 

As low as silence languish ; 
Earth surely now may give her calm 

To whom she gave her anguish. 



358 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

O poets ! from a maniac's tongue 

Was pour'd the deathless singing ! 
O Christians ! at your cross of hope 

A hopeless hand was clinging ! 
O men! this man in brotherhood 

Your weary paths beguiling, 
Groan'd inly while he taught you peace, 

And died while ye were smiling ! 

And now, what time ye all may read 

Through dimming tears his story, 
How discord on the music fell, 

And darkness on the glory, — 
And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds 

And wandering lights departed, 
He wore no less a loving face 

Because so broken-hearted. 

He shall be strong to sanctify 

The poet's high vocation, 
And bow the meekest Christian down 

In meeker adoration : 
Nor ever shall he be in praise 

By wise or good forsaken : 
Famed softly, as the household name 

Of one whom God hath taken ! 

With sadness that is calm, not gloom, 

I learn to think upon him ; 
With meekness that is gratefulness, 

On God, whose heaven has won him ; 
Who suffer'd once the madness-cloud 

Toward his love to blind him; 
But gently led the blind along 

Where breath and bird could find him ; 



ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. 359 

And wrought within his shatter'd brain 

Such quick poetic senses, 
As hills have language for, and stars 

Harmonious influences ! 
The pulse of dew upon the grass 

His own did calmly number ; 
And silent shadow from the trees 

Fell o'er him like a slumber. 

The very world, by God's constraint, 

From falsehood's chill removing, 
Its women and its men became 

Beside him true and loving ! — 
And timid hares were drawn from woods 

To share his home caress ; 
Uplooking to his human eyes 

"With- sylvan tenderness. 

But while in blindness he remain'd, 

Unconscious of the guiding, 
And things provided came without 

The SAveet sense of providing, 
He testified this solemn truth, — 

Though frenzy desolated, — 
Nor man nor nature satisfy 

Whom only God created ! 

Like a sick child, that knoweth not 

His mother while she blesses, 
And droppeth on his burning brow 

The coolness of her kisses ; 
That turns his fever'd eyes around, 

" My mother ! where 's my mother? " 
As if such tender words and looks 

Could come from any other. 



360 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

The fever gone, with leaps of heart 

He sees her bending o'er him ; 
Her face all pale from watchful love — 

Th' unweary love she bore him. 
Thus woke he from the dream 

His life's long fever gave him, 
Beneath those deep pathetic eyes 

"Which closed in death to save him ! 

Thus ! O not thus ! no type of earth 

Could image that awaking, 
Wherein he scarcely heard the chaunt 

Of seraphs round him breaking — 
Or felt the new immortal throb 

Of soul from body parted ; 
But felt those eyes alone, and knew 

" My Saviour ! not deserted ! " 

Deserted! who hath dreamt that when 

The cross in darkness rested, 
Upon the Victim's hidden face 

No love was manifested ? 
What frantic hands outstretched have e'er 

Th' atoning drops averted? 
What tears have wash'd them from the soul 

That one should be deserted? 

Deserted ! God could separate 

From his own essence rather : 
And Adam's sins have swept between 

The righteous Son and Father. 
Yea! once Immanuel's orphan'd cry 

His universe hath shaken — 
It went up single, echoless, 

" My God, I am forsaken ! " 



ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. 361 

It went up from the Holy's lips 

Amid his lost creation, 
That of the lost, no son should use 

Those words of desolation ; 
That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, 

Should mar not hope's fruition : 
And I on Cowper's grave should see 

His rapture in a vision ! 



THE CITY. 



I dwell amid the city — 

The great humanity which beats 

Its life along the stony streets, 

like a strong unsunned river 

In a self-made course, is ever 
Boiling on, rolling on! — 

I sit and hear it as it rolls, 

That flow of souls ! 

The infinite tendencies, 

In the finite chafed and pent, — 

In the finite turbulent! 

The long drear monotone, 

Made of many tones that rise 

Each to each, as contraries ! 

The rich man's ambling steeds 
Lolling their necks as the chariot comes 
With its inward gleam of the eddying plumes: 

The poor man's abject needs 
The feet that wearily roam, 
Unquicken'd by thoughts of the fire at home ; 
.16 



362 SELECTIONS PROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

The cry of the babe, unheard, of its mother, 
Though it lie on her breast, while it thinks of the other 
Laid yesterday in the tomb ! 

The whine of voices that have made 
Their own grief's sacredness a trade; 
The curse that ringeth hollowly 
The crime against the misery ; 

The haggling talk — the organ's grinding, 
The grinder's face being o'er it leant, 
Most vacant even of woe, 
"While the children's hearts leap so, 
At the merry music's winding ; 
The rapid pace of the business-men, 
Whose eyes do glitter cold, 
As still they saw the gold ; 
The funeral's long slow train 
Plumed black beside ; 
Many a house where the rioter's laugh, 
And count the beakers they shall quaff, 
At the morrow's festivals ; 

Many a house where sits a bride, 
Trying the morrow's coronals 

With a red blush ; even to-day 
Slowly creep the funerals, 
As none should hear the noise, and say, — 
The living, the living must go away 
To multiply the dead. 
Hark ! an upward shout is sent, 

In grave, strong joy, from tower to steeple, 
The bells ring out, 

The trumpets sound, the people shout ; 
The young Queen goes to her Parliament 
She turneth round her large blue eyes, 
More bright Avith childish memories 
Than royal hopes upon the people. 



ELIZABETH R. BROWNING. 363 

On either side she bows her head 

Lowly with a queenly grace, 
And smiles, most trusting innocent, 

As if she smiled to her mother. 
The thousands press before each other 
To bless her to her face ; 
And booms the deep majestic voice, 
Through trump and drum— May the Queen rejoice 
In the people's liberties! 

I dwell amid the city 

And hear the flow of souls ; 
I do not hear the several contraries, 

I do not hear the separate tone that rolls 
In act or speech ; 

For pomp or trade, for merry-make or folly r 
I hear the confluence and sum of each, 

And that is melancholy. 
Thy voice is a complaint, crowned city! 
The blue sky covering thee like God's great pity I 



THE WAIL OF THE SPIRIT OF EARTH. 

I was so beautiful, so beautiful, 
My joy stood up within me bold and glad 

To answer God, and when his work was full, 
To "Very good" responded " Very glad." 

Filtcr'd through roses did the light enclose me, 

And bunches of the grape swung blue across me. 
Yet I wail. 



364 SELECTIONS FROM THE BRITISH POETS. 

O my deep waters, cataract and flood, 

What wordless triumph did your voices render ! 

mountain summits, where the angels stood, 

And shook from head and wing thick dews of splendour ! 
How with a holy quiet did your Earthy 
Accept that Heavenly, knowing ye were worthy. 
Yet I wail. 

1 wail! I wail! Now hear my charge to-day, 
Thou man, thou woman, mark'd as the misdoers, 

By God's sword at your hacks, I lent my clay 

To make your bodies,, which had grown more flowers; 
And, now in change for what I lent, ye give me 
The thorn to vex, the tempest-fire to cleave me. 
And yet I wail. 

I wail ! I wail ! Do ye hear that I wail? 

I had no part in your transgression — none. 
My roses on the hough did hud, not pale ; 

My rivers did not loiter in the sun ; 
I was obedient. Wherefore in my centre, 
Do I thrill at this curse of death and winter. 
And I wail. 

I feel your steps, O wand'ring sinners, strike 
A sense of death to me, and undug graves ! 

The heart of earth, once calm, is trembling like 
The ragged foam along the ocean waves. 

The restless earthquakes rock against each other, 

The elements moan round me — Mother, mother ! 

And I wail. • 



ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. 365 



MAN. 

Man ! man, thou poor antithesis of power, 
Child of all time, yet creature of an hour,— 
By turns chameleon of a thousand forms, 
The lord of empire, and the food of worms ! 
Fair beams the torch of science in thine hand, 
And sheds its brightness o'er the glimmering land : 
While in thy native grandeur, bold and free, 
Thou bidd'st the wilds of nature smile for thee, 
And treadest ocean's paths full royally ! 
And yet, proud clay, thine empire is a span, 
Nor all thy greatness makes thee more than man I 
While knowledge, science, only serve t' impart, 
The God thou would'st be, and the thing thou art. 



THE END, 



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16mo. pp. 328. Muslin $0 34 

I. An Essay on the Measure of Christian Liberality. By Eev. Henry Con- 
stable, A. M. II. The Scripture Rule of Religious Contribution: in what 
Proportion should a Believer in Revelation dedicate his Property to the 
Cause of God? 

A few Methodist and Presbyterian laymen of Ireland last year offered two 
prizes for the first and second best essays in favour of the Scriptural duty 
of "giving in proportion to means and income." Five adjudicators were 
chosen, and fifty-one essays were sent in. But when the adjudicators had 
finished their labours, strange to tell, each gave his verdict in favour of a 
different writer. Each seems to have been tenacious of his own judg- 
ment, and the result was that the five essays were published in one volume 
under the title of " Gold and the Gospel." Already the work has attained 
a wide circulation in Great Britain and Ireland. Five gentlemen, of differ- 
ent denominations, have each procured a thousand copies for gratuitous 
disposition in their respective Churches. 

The present volume comprises the first two of these essays. They are well 
adapted to the American mind, and the inquiring and improving condition 
of the American Churches. Let this book be generally read, and acted on, 
and the result will be to put a new face on the financial affairs of the Chris. 
Man world. 



BOOKS PUBLISHED BY CARLTON & PHILLIPS, 
200 Mulberry-street, New- York. 



Ruter's Gregory's Ecclesiastical History. 

A Concise History of the Christian Church, from its first Establishment 
to the Present Time : containing a general View of Missions, and ex- 
hibiting the State of Religion in various Parts of the World. Com- 
piled from the Works of Dr. Gregory, with various Additions and 
Improvements. By Martin Ruter, D. D. 

8vo., pp. 446. Plain sheep $1 50 

Plaincalf 1 75 

Calf gilt 2 00 

Calf extra 2 25 

This worlc forms part of the course of study adopted by tlie last General 
Conference. 

This work, as prepared by Dr. Gregory, was intended to furnish a compre 
hensive abridgment of Ecclesiastical History. The author's labours do not. 
however, extend to the close of the eighteenth century. Dr. Ruter has 
ably carried on the work to the year 1830, making numerous additions and 
improvements, and enriching the whole with a comprehensive view of mis- 
sions, &c. It is, therefore, one of the very few Church Histories which 
bring the subject down to the nineteenth century. 

M'Oivan on the Sabbath. 

Practical Considerations on the Christian Sabbath. By Rev. Peter 
M'Owan. Treating on the Design and Moral Obligation of the Sab- 
bath; its change from the Seventh to the First Day of the Week; 
and the Spirit and Manner in which it ought to be sanctified. 

18mo., pp. 200. Muslin $0 30 

The desecration of the holy day is so common, that no effort should be spared 
to bring about a better state of things. This manual is recommended as 
a timely and thorough exposition of the subject. It treats of the original 
and general design of the Sabbath ; moral obligation of the day ; its change 
from the seventh to the first day of the week ; and the spirit and manner 
in which it ought to be sanctified. 

Curiosities of Animal Life. 

Curiosities of Animal Life, as developed by the Recent Discoveries of 
the Microscope. With Illustrations and Index. Revised by Rev. D. 
P. Kidder. 

16mo., pp. 184. Muslin $0 50 

One of the most novel and interesting books of the times. 

Wesleyan Student. 

Wesleyan Student; or, Memoirs of Aaron H. Hurd. By Rev. Joseph 

HOLDICH. 

18mo., pp. 288. Muslin $0 35 

An excellent memoir of a most promising young man. We commend it to 
the young, and especially to students in our Seminaries and Colleges.— 
Methodist Quarterly Review 



PUBLISHED BY CARLTON & PHILLIPS, 
200 Mulberry-street, Hew- York. 

Smith's Sacred Annals. 

Saceed Annals : or, Kesearclies into the History and Religion of Man- 
kind. By George Smith, F. S. A., M. R. S. L., etc. In three large 
volumes. Each volume is complete in itself, and may be had sepa- 
rately. 

8vo. Price $7 00 

Vol. I. The Patriarchal Age : or, the History and Eeligion of Mankind, 
from the Creation to the Death of Isaac: deduced from the "Writings of 
Moses, and other Inspired Authors ; and illustrated by copious References 
to the Ancient Records, Traditions, and Mythology of the Heathen World. 

Vol. II. The Hebrew People : or, the History and Religion of the Israel- 
ites, from the Origin of the Nation to the Time of Christ : deduced from 
the Writings of Moses, and other Inspired Authors; and illustrated by 
copious References to the Ancient Records, Traditions, and Mythology 
of the Heathen World. 

Vol. III. The Gentile Nations : or. the History and Religion of the Egypt- 
ians, Assyrians, Babylonians, Medes, Persians, Greeks, and Romans; col- 
lected from Ancient Authors and Holy Scripture, and including the recent 
Discoveries in Egyptian, Persian, and Assyrian Inscriptions : forming a 
complete Connexion of Sacred and Profane History, and showing the Ful- 
filment of Sacred Prophecy. 

Mr. Smith has, in his Sacred Annals, made a valuable contribution to the 
literature of the Christian evidences, as well as of ancient history. . . . 
The third volume presents as complete and clear a view of the religious 
systems of the great Gentile nations of antiquity as can be prepared from 
existing records. — (London) Literary Gazette. 

Mr. Smith has achieved a great work. . . . We praise the book as an ex- 
ceedingly important addition to the class of literature to which it belongs. 
It supplies a great want, and supplies it fully. — (London) Christian Wit- 
ness. 

Strickland's Biblical Literature. 

A Manual of Biblical Literature. By "William P. Strick- 
land, D. D. 

12mo., pp. 404. Muslin SO 80 

The work is divided into nine parts, treating severally of Biblical Philology, 
Biblical Criticism, Biblical Exegesis, Biblical Analysis, Biblical Archaeology, 
Biblical Ethnography, Biblical History, Biblical Chronology, and Biblical 
Geography. This enumeration will suffice to show the extent of the range 
of topics embraced in this volume. Of course they are treated summarily : 
but the very design of the author was to prepare a compendious manual, 
and he has succeeded excellently. — Methodist Quarterly Review. 

Memoir of Rev. S. B. Bangs. 

The Young Minister : or, Memoirs and Remains of Stephen Beekman 
Bangs, of the New- York East Conference. By W. H. N. Magruder, 
M. A. With a Portrait. 

12mo., pp. 388. Muslin $0 70 

There are some classes who may derive peculiar profit from a study of this 
book. Young ministers of the gospel may deduce from it the elements of a 
happy and prosperous professional career. Students may be led to inquire 
closely into their duty, and may be prepared conscientiously to decide 
whether or not God is calling them to the responsible work of the Chris- 
tian ministry. Parents may "see the effect of a careful and rigid and truly 
kind training of their children. And finally, all may be stimulated to a 
holy life by the energetic and eloquent discourses that follow. — Rev. E. O. 
Eavcn. 



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